


Grace and Choice

by Bridgesto



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Always-a-girl!Stiles, F/F, F/M, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, POV Multiple, Rule 63, Slash, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Women Being Awesome, always-a-girl!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bridgesto/pseuds/Bridgesto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek knows better than to be surprised when things go pear-shaped.  The most she’s holding out for at this point is survival and minimally effective damage control.</p><p>…she’s starting to think she may have set the bar a little high on both counts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Integral to Survival](https://archiveofourown.org/works/492796) by [asocialfauxpas (fuzzytomato)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzytomato/pseuds/asocialfauxpas). 



> This story was inspired by Asocialfauxpas’s fantastic fic, “Integral to Survival” at: http://archiveofourown.org/works/492796. Probably everyone in fandom has read this by now but if you haven’t and you like kidnapping fics, you definitely should. 
> 
>  
> 
> Title from "Babel" by Mumford and Sons.
> 
> SO MUCH LOVE to MercuryDraconix, who is really probably closer to a co-writer than a beta, and to Viola25 who beta'd this even though genderswap is not her cup of tea. 
> 
>  
> 
> Post-season 2, post-alpha pack. Completely Jossed by season three. Erica and Boyd are still around, Peter and Jackson are absent.

Stiles and Derek are fighting over training schedules in the old train depot when the hunters show up.

“Look,” Stiles is saying, clearly making an effort to keep her voice even, “Scott failed three classes last year because of this werewolf shit.  That’s why he’s in summer school _._   He will fail summer school too if he doesn’t have at least some time to do his homework!”

“What,” Derek says, holding on to her temper with an effort. “You’d rather he ends up dead because he still can’t control his wolf?”

“No,” Stiles says, clutching at her hair in exasperation, “I’m just asking for some balance here, jeez.  I get that you’re, like, super anal about training, but he does have a life, and that life really does need to include, I dunno, _graduating from high school_.”

Derek bares her teeth at Stiles and Stiles narrows her eyes back.

“Drop the act Sourwolf, you don’t scare me anymore.”

Derek subsides, faintly put out.

“He’s not ready,” Derek says, frustrated. God but Stiles is persistent. “None of them are.  They’re almost completely untrained and there’s a lot of people out there just waiting to take advantage when a pack is weak and disorganized like this!”

“We’re doing alright so far,” Stiles says, and Derek growls in frustration.

“Stiles, it’s a miracle we’re not all dead yet.  It is pure, dumb luck that we’ve made it this far.”  Derek is about to continue trying to beat it through Stiles’ head that her way really is the best way when she hears something and freezes.

“And another thing,” Stiles starts, but Derek waves a hand at her, flashing her eyes for good measure.  In a rare moment of obedience, Stiles shuts up as Derek listens intently.

“Stiles, get back,” Derek growls, and lets her claws lengthen, “Someone’s here.”

“What, like pedestrians?  Hooligan kids looking for a place to light up?”

“I don’t know,” Derek snaps, “get _back_.”

Stiles retreats into one of the empty railcars just as a group of four hunters step into view.

Derek doesn’t get a good look at them, but it’s pretty clear they are hunters because as soon as they spot Derek they open fire.  Derek goes down pretty much instantly, she can’t dodge that many bullets, and once she’s down they pull out the Tasers.  She can hear Stiles scrambling for cover in the train car as stray bullets ricochet off the metal walls.

“Come out, little werewolf,” one the hunters says, sing-song, and Derek curses inwardly because she knows that voice.  A moment later she’s proved correct when Sandra MacAllister leans over into her field of vision.

Derek rolls her eyes.  “Oh, fuck my _life,_ ” she says, “Not you again.”

Sandra grins at her. “Tell your beta to come out here or we’ll load the wolfsbane bullets.”

Derek struggles to get up on her elbows and snaps, “Leave her out of this, she’s human.” At the same times Stiles yelps, from inside the traincar, “Human!  Oh my god I’m totally human, don’t shoot!”   

“Human?” Sandra raises both her eyebrows at Derek in feigned surprise, “Thought you were done with human girls?”  She reaches down to brush Derek’s hair out of her face in the mockery of a caress and Derek snaps at her fingers, still too weak to claw at her properly.

“I said leave her out of it.” Derek repeats, trying to will herself to heal faster.

Sandra smirks, straightens.  “Come out little girl; wouldn’t want to have to shoot you.”

“Uh-huh,” Stiles says, voice muffled, “Why don’t I believe you?”

Sandra shrugs.  “It’s not like you have a choice,” she says, “There’s four of us and one of you, and there’s no other way out of here.  If you make us come in there after you I promise you’ll regret it.”

“I’m already regretting it,” Stiles snaps back.

Sandra leans over Derek again and says, “She’s feisty, your human.”

“She’s not _my_ human,” Derek says from between clenched teeth, “She’s a thorn in my side.” From Sandra’s expression, she isn’t really buying it, but Derek had to try.

Sandra turns back to the traincar, Taser out and ready.  “Would it help you make up your mind if I Taser Derek until you decide to come out?  It won’t kill her, obviously, but it’ll hurt like hell.”

“Oh,” Derek says, not bothering to hide her sarcasm, “Like I’ve never been Tasered before.” Then she concentrates on not screaming as Sandra proves her point by pulling the trigger.

When Derek comes out of it Stiles is standing next to her, hands in the air, eyes wide and furious, snapping, “Oh my god, _stop!_   Look, I’m here okay?”  

Derek stares up at her from the floor, trying to get her breath back and thinking woozily that Stiles is kind of cute when she’s all riled up.

“What do you people want, anyway,” Stiles continues, “You’re supposed to have a code and Derek hasn’t hurt anyone -”

Stiles breaks off with a cry when one of Sandra’s goons clubs her over the head with the butt of his gun.  Stiles falls to her knees next to Derek, one hand to her head, blood trickling through her fingers as Derek struggles to get up and rip those bastards apart.Sandra smiles at her sweetly and pulls what Derek recognizes with a sinking sensation as a tranq gun.  Derek just has time for a last wordless snarl before everything starts going fuzzy around the edges.  She’s conscious long enough to see one of Sandra’s goons pull Stiles to her feet, cuff her hands behind her, and shove her towards the door.  Stiles looks over her shoulder at Derek, and Derek feels someone lifting her off the floor...and then everything goes black.

***

When she wakes up she’s chained pretty securely to a bench in the back of some kind of dark, windowless van.  The van is moving, which is...not good.  What’s worse is that she’s not alone.  Stiles is at her feet, fiddling with the restraints around Derek’s ankles.  Derek winces as the van hits a bump and Stiles loses her balance, falling backwards and catching herself on one hand.

“Wha- Stiles?” Derek says, still bleary.

“Shut up, shut up!” Stiles hisses with a quick glance towards the driver’s cabin.  They’re being quiet, but apparently not quiet enough because the window between them and the driver’s cab opens and one of Sandra’s goons peers through.

“She said you’d be waking up around now,” he says, and shoots Derek with another tranq.

 _Goddamn fucking hunters,_ Derek thinks bitterly and goes under again, accompanied by the sound of Stiles’ colorful swearing.

 

***

 

Derek wakes up in a concrete cell and sighs.  This is getting really old.  Playing games with Sandra had been fun back in upstate New York, when it was just her and Laura, messing with the local hunters for kicks.  The game has lost its appeal, at this point. 

Something is knocking repetitively against her leg and Derek realizes that Stiles is in the cell too.  Stiles is trussed up with half a dozen zip ties, fingers tapping irritably against her leg, kicking at Derek’s ankles and making muffled sounds of frustration around some kind of improvised gag.  When she sees that Derek is awake, she shakes her hair out her eyes and does something complicated with her eyebrows; her efforts at talking through the gag are unintelligible, but increasingly emphatic.  For a moment Derek just stares at her, and then Stiles’ eyes narrow and she gives Derek’s ankles another pointed kick.  Derek shakes herself fully conscious and sits up.

“You alright?” Derek asks, reaching over and pulling out the gag.

 Stiles rolls her eyes and spits a little, trying to get rid of the taste. “I think my head may actually explode,” she says with a grimace.  “Oh my god, kill me now.”

“Weren’t you cuffed, before?” Derek slices easily through the zip ties and Stiles sits up, starts shaking feeling back into her fingers.

“Ow ow ow pins and needles ow.” Stiles mutters, then, with a superior sniff, “Ha!  Cuffs haven’t been able to hold me for years, not since I accidentally spent three hours cuffed to the radiator while Dad was out.  He made me practice.”

Derek raises both eyebrows, reluctantly impressed. 

“So...zip ties?”

Stiles glares some more, still rubbing circulation back into her limbs.  “Zip ties are a _bitch_ ,” she says.

Derek nods, looks around.  “Where are we?  Any idea?”

Stiles shakes her head.  “Not a clue.  No windows in creepster pedophile-van.  But...” Stiles hesitates and gives Derek a sidelong look. 

“What?”

“We were driving for at least an hour.  I didn’t think to check my watch as we were getting abducted, but...at least an hour.  It might be a little hard to track us, but you’re the expert there.”

Stiles looks at Derek, brown eyes hopeful, then sighs as she catches Derek’s expression. “Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

They’re both silent for a moment, then Derek pulls herself together and looks over at Stiles, who is mapping the cut on her head with hesitant fingers. 

“How’s your head?”

Stiles glares at her.  It’s got more energy behind it than Derek thinks Stiles would be able to manage if she were seriously injured, which is somewhat reassuring. 

“It _hurts,_ genius, any more questions?”

“Nope.” Derek says, and sits back against the wall, gathering the strength to stand.

“...Are _you_ okay?” Stiles asks, after a moment, with a vague gesture which Derek guesses is meant to convey Derek’s general everything _._ “You know, getting shot and all?”

“Normal bullets,” Derek says, “I’m good.”

Stiles nods and drops the subject, for which Derek is eternally grateful.  She’s sore and still a bit fuzzy around the edges from the tranq, but she’s mostly fine.

It takes Stiles all of ten minutes to start going stir-crazy.  She wobbles a bit when she first stands up, then steadies.  As soon as she’s vertical she starts a thorough inspection of the cell. 

Stiles’ dark hair is falling in her face, and she brushes at it irritably to get it out of her eyes, hissing a little when her hand brushes her temple.  She keeps up a constant stream of commentary.  It’s kind of annoying, but kind of soothing too, in its normalcy.  

The chatter makes Derek’s head hurt, but Derek supposes this is good - Stiles running her mouth is par for the course and if it’s helping her to keep her head so much the better.  The last thing Derek needs is for Stiles to start panicking.

Stiles wanders, poking at the walls, searching for cracks or weakness, finds none.  She gives the door a vicious kick and whirls away, scowling. 

“I don’t suppose you can, like, super-strength a way out of here or something...?” Stiles trails off, hands on her hips, eyebrows raised in question.

Derek figures the drugs have worn off enough she can stand without embarrassing herself by falling over.  She gets up to test the door, but it appears Sandra has covered her bases pretty well, in this at least.  Derek throws an experimental punch at the door and backs off, shaking her hand when it doesn’t even dent.  Derek shakes her head at Stiles.  “Solid walls, solid metal door.  Hinges are on the outside.” Stiles’ face falls and she gives the door another half-hearted kick before resuming her frenetic pacing.  Derek begins her own inspection of the cell, but everything is frustratingly secure.  Eventually, Derek gives up and sits back against the wall.  Stiles keeps pacing.

“So, wait,” Stiles says, apropos of nothing after a few minutes of (sweet, sweet) silence, “Do you know these people?”

Derek rolls her eyes and leans her head back against the wall. 

“I know Sandra,” she says.

“Really.” Stiles’ tone is flat and incredulous. “And _how_ do you know ‘Sandra?’”   She does the finger-quotes too, which is just obnoxious.

“Met her in New York,” Derek says, “Hunter.  Well, hunter-in-training, last I saw her.  She’s kind of an amateur.”

“Amateur?” Stiles repeats, looking around their cell. “Got the drop on _you_ anyway.”

Derek glares. “She got lucky.”

“Sure, whatever Derek,” Stiles says, resuming her pacing. “Hopefully she and her amateur pals won’t kill us with their amateur arsenal of amateur weapons.”

The door opens on silent hinges, taking both of them by surprise.  Stiles whirls to face the door and Derek scrambles to her feet, cursing herself for letting herself get distracted, for not hearing them coming.

It’s Sandra and her goons, no big surprise there.  Sandra strides in, flanked by her three flunkies, all of whom are pointing guns at Derek (which is unfortunate, but workable) or at Stiles (which is less workable). 

The henchman on Sandra’s right is tall and solid, bald, with biker tattoos and a serious-looking leather jacket - he looks like a bouncer at a club.  The man on the left is smaller, wiry, and sporting a truly wretched goatee over a face like a rat’s.  The one in the middle is...bland.  Everything about him is average - medium height, medium weight, muddy dishwater blond hair.  He would have been entirely unremarkable except for his eyes, which are as flat and empty as anything Derek has ever seen. Deadeyes is wearing a white lab-coat and for the first time, Derek starts to be seriously concerned.  It looks like little Sandra may have found herself a pet psychopath, and Derek has had enough of psychopaths for a lifetime.  

Derek ignores the flunkies and stares straight at Sandra.

“Really, Sandy?” Derek says raising one eyebrow in the most obnoxious way she knows, “How on earth did you get _henchmen_?  Do they know how accident prone you are?  I have photos if you need a reference point...”

The flunkies exchange glances and there’s a horrified sort of choking noise from Stiles.  Sandra flushes.

“How’s your latest chew-toy?” Sandra asks, instead of responding. “Still intact, I see.”

Stiles sneers at her, says, “She only tries to kill me once a week or so, and we’ve already met this week’s quota, so I’m not too worried.”

“You should be,” Sandra tells her, “You can never trust her kind.”

Stiles eyes Sandra doubtfully and edges a bit closer to Derek.  “Yeah, right,” she says, “You’re much more trustworthy.”

Sandra shrugs, gestures, and walks out of the room, calling, “Bring her!” over her shoulder.

Then Bouncer and Ratface move towards them. Derek steps forward, pushing Stiles behind her automatically, growling a warning as she shifts; she’s not going down without a fight. 

The problem with hunters, of course, is that Derek could take all three of them in a fair fight, but they have guns and Tasers and who knows what else.  All Derek has are teeth and claws, and her range is limited. And there’s Stiles to consider as well.

Ratface shoots Derek with his Taser and Derek falls to her knees, twitching, unable to fight back as Bouncer loops a coil of what smells like wolfsbane-laced rope around her wrists.  He falls back for a second when Stiles lands a (pretty impressive, actually) right hook to the side of his face, but one good shove knocks Stiles back into the wall and has her clutching at her head and struggling to regain her balance.

Derek looks over her shoulder as they haul her out the door and catches a glimpse of Stiles, brown eyes furious and yelling, “Hey! Hey wait! Where are you taking her?  Who the hell are you people, anyway?”

Sandy’s goons don’t bother to respond, and the heavy cell door slams on Stiles’ increasingly inventive cursing. 

It’s a pointless gesture, but it’s kind of sweet that she’s trying.  

 

***

 

They take her to a room that looks...well, frankly it looks alarmingly well-equipped.   It reeks of blood and lingering terror; by the looks of things, Derek isn’t the first visitor to this room. There are manacles hanging from the ceiling; Derek figures those are for her. 

She’s right.

“Who’s your little human friend?” Sandra asks. “You seem awfully chummy.”

“She’s not my friend,” Derek says, with as much dignity as it’s possible to maintain while hanging from the ceiling.  “Didn’t do your homework, did you?”

Deadeyes jabs Derek with the Taser.  When she’s finished twitching Sandra says, “Your pet?  Lover?”

She _does_ know about Kate, then.  Damn. Does everyone know about Kate?

“She’s a nuisance,” Derek says, short and clipped.  She has no interest in talking to these people, but she finds she also doesn’t want them asking questions about Stiles.  

“So why haven’t you killed her yet?” Deadeyes asks; he sounds genuinely curious.

Derek stares at him in disbelief. “Because she’s a nuisance, not a threat.” Derek says, in the slow, deliberate tones reserved for explaining things to very small children, then looks back to Sandra.  “And you people think _I’m_ the monster?  Sandy, where did you find him?  This pretty pathetic even for you.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Sandra says, tilting her head to one side.  “He’s very good at what he does.”

Deadeyes draws a knife and slashes across Derek’s ribs.  He pulls up her shirt and watches as the skin knits back together. Derek kicks out at him, but they’ve tied her feet together and it’s hard to get any momentum. Deadeyes dodges with ease.

“You sure aren’t human,” he says to Derek, and pulls out the Taser again.

“Only the best and the brightest for you, Sandy,” Derek manages, and Sandra gives her a mocking grin.

“Larry, want one of these?”  Across the room, Bouncer is holding some sort of implement that Derek prefers not to look at too closely. 

“No,” Larry says, with a glance at Sandra for confirmation, “We can get creative later.  We’ve got all the time in the world.” 

Larry smiles.  It doesn’t even come close to reaching his eyes.  Derek fixes her gaze on the far wall and clenches her teeth as Bouncer dumps a bucket of water over her head and takes the cattle-prod Ratface is holding out for him, grinning. It’s not like she hasn’t done this before.

 

***

 

When they bring her back to the cell, Bouncer shoves her through the door with a hand between her shoulder blades and Derek stumbles, falling to her knees on the concrete like a puppet with cut strings, still dripping water. She should get up - Stiles is watching, and she needs to be the one in control here, but she can’t quite gather the strength to move. 

When she looks up Stiles is kneeling next to her, lips tight, brown eyes concerned.

“Amateurs, huh?” Stiles says, reaching out to begin worrying at the knots of wolfsbane-laced rope keeping Derek’s hands behind her back.

Derek huffs a laugh and fights nausea as Stiles works to free her hands.  When she finally picks the knots apart, Stiles tosses the rope into the far right corner of their cell.  Derek can still feel it, emanating menace, but it should be far enough away it won’t be actively harmful. ~~  
~~

Derek braces her hands against her knees and takes a deep, steadying breath as Stiles moves around to crouch by her side.

“She may have advanced a bit since I last saw her.” Derek admits with a sigh, sitting back on her heels and rubbing at her wrists.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, “Seems like she’s really grown as a person.  How come you don’t know anyone that _isn’t_ trying to kill you?”

Derek can’t help the look she gives Stiles for that _,_ and Stiles ducks her head, wincing. “Ugh, god, sorry.  Except for us, obviously.”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

Stiles winces again, then asks, “Can you get up?”

Derek thinks about it.  “I’m just...gonna sit here for a bit,” she says after a moment and Stiles rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, okay Derek.  Up you get.”

Stiles stands and tugs Derek to her feet.  Stiles half-drags, half-carries her over to the wall, where she deposits Derek with a grunt of effort. It takes them farther away from the wolfsbane, and Derek finds she can breathe a little easier.

“Oof, you’re heavier than you look.”

“You calling me fat?” Derek says, trying for a smirk, and Stiles stares at her in amazement.

“Oh my god you do have a sense of humor.  Wait till I tell the gang.”

Derek tips her head back against the wall and closes her eyes.  “One word and I’ll rip your throat out,” she says, voice pleasant.

Derek can practically hear Stiles rolling her eyes as she settles against the wall next to Derek. She’s sitting closer than personal boundaries would normally dictate, and Derek would complain about it, but she’s actually too busy trying to control the tremors still running through her body.  It’s like some of the electricity is still lingering under her skin, buzzing away.  Derek hugs herself with both arms and shudders, riding the wave. 

Beside her, she’s dimly aware of Stiles muttering, “Jeez _,_ what did they _do_ to you?” and then Stiles is tugging her over to lie on her side, her head resting on Stiles’ thigh.

“Tasers, mostly,” Derek says, through chattering teeth, too miserable to enforce her usual perimeter of personal space. “God, I hate getting electrocuted.”  Derek meant it to be wry, but it comes out wrong, raw and too honest and she can hear Stiles’ quick intake of breath in the following silence.

Stiles doesn’t comment, for once, but Derek feels her shift, then the weight of what must be Stiles’ windbreaker settling over her shoulders.  It still carries some of Stiles’ body heat and it warms Derek far more than it should.

“Sleep it off, Derek,” Stiles tells her.  She sounds tired and a little sad and Derek would ask her about it, but she just doesn’t have the energy.

Mutual life-saving aside, they still barely tolerate each other on a good day, and this is all kinds of weird.  Derek can’t bring herself to care.  What’s she going to do, complain because Stiles is being nice to her?

Derek falls asleep to the sound of Stiles humming something soothing and repetitive, fingers absently combing through Derek’s wet hair. 

 

***

 

Derek jolts awake when she hears footsteps coming down the hall.

“What?” Stiles says, brown eyes sharp and alert. “Are they coming back?”

“Yeah, stay back.”

Stiles scrambles to her feet and melts back into the far corner while Derek takes up a position in the blind spot by the door, claws out, teeth lengthening into fangs.  

When the door opens Derek leaps at the opening - and straight into two Taser-wires.  Derek falls to the floor, twitching, and hears Bouncer laugh.  The hunters are just a blur in the doorway; Derek stares up at them, trying to get her breath back and force her muscles to start working again. 

“Try that again and we might decide it’s not worth the effort of feeding you.” Larry says, his tone casual.  Derek glares and grits her teeth as Ratface chucks a loaf of bread, a plastic water bottle and a bucket into the middle of their cell. Then the door clangs shut and Derek looks up to find that Stiles has moved out of her corner to crouch at Derek’s side.

“Um,” Stiles says. “Good try.  You okay?”

Derek gives her a withering look.

“Right, sorry, dumb question.”

Derek shakes her head and props herself up on her elbows.  “What time is it?”

Stiles looks down at her watch, grimaces, and says, “Food time, I guess.  How long before anyone starts looking, do you think?”

Derek thinks for a minute.  “You got anywhere to be?”

“Not really.  It’s summer, and unlike-” Stiles cuts herself off with a glance at the door, “Unlike _some_ people, I don’t have any summer obligations.”

Derek snorts at the oblique reference to Scott, sits up and grabs for the water.  Stiles gets the bread and they retreat back away from the door.  Derek twists the cap off the water bottle, thinking hard. The betas probably won’t miss her for a while.  She’d sent them on a scavenger hunt, they’re not due back for a day or two.  Peter comes and goes, Scott’s busy with either schoolwork or moping, though it’s possible he’s doing as she asked and helping the betas with their scavenger hunt training exercise.

That leaves Stiles’ dad, basically.  Derek slants a sideways glance at Stiles, who has settled down cross-legged on the floor and is staring at down at her hands where they’re folded in her lap.

“Your dad?”

Stiles shrugs and shakes her head, her knuckles going white as she twists her fingers together.

“I’ve been...helping a friend, and with you all summer.  He’s used to me disappearing for a while at a time.  He’ll worry if I don’t check in tonight, but he probably won’t start actually looking for me until tomorrow.”

Right, they’re on their own then.  At least for now. 

Derek snags the loaf of bread from Stiles’ lap, grabs a quarter of it out of the bag and hands the rest back to Stiles, along with the water bottle.

“Eat,” she says, “You’ll need it.”

Stiles nods and does as she says, though not without complaint.  By unspoken agreement, she follows Derek’s example and leaves half the loaf - they don’t know when they’ll get food next. 

“Bread?  Just...bread?  Really?  Bread and water? Could they be any more boring?”

“Don’t push your luck Stiles,” Derek warns, getting up to grab the bucket and set it in the far left corner of the cell. She’s starting to feel a little better, but she’s still twitchy.

“Gross,” Stiles says, eyeing the bucket and wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Gross gross gross this is so much worse than camping.”

“Could be worse,” Derek tells her and, at Stiles’ incredulous look, says reasonably, “Could be no bucket at all.”

“Could be better,” Stiles counters, “they could let us out for frickin’ bathroom breaks, jeez.”

And then they both fall silent because the bucket, the bread, the water...these are all signs of a plan.  It gives them more time to plot an escape, more time for a rescue (which Derek privately doubts will show up - according to Stiles they’re at least an hour outside of town, finding them here would take a minor miracle) but the implications are not exactly reassuring.

The electric lights overhead never go off.   Re-energized somewhat by the food, Stiles spends the time pacing, rubbing her arms in the chill of the cell.  It might be summer in California, but there’s certainly no sun in this concrete hell-hole of a cell. Stiles checks her watch compulsively every few minutes, toys with the clasp. 

It only takes about fifteen minutes of this to start driving Derek crazy.

“ _Stiles_ ,” she says, with more heat than she intended, “Just - sit down already.  Enough with the pacing.”

Stiles starts her 412th circuit of the cell. “Can’t,” she says, tossing Derek a manic, unrepentant quirk of a smile.  “Hyperactive, remember?  And I don’t have my meds with me.  If I tried to sit still right now I’d probably vibrate out of my skin.”

“Anything to stop the pacing,” Derek returns, rolling her eyes.

Stiles ignores this completely and says, “How long do you think that bread is supposed to last?”

“No idea.”

“How long does it take to starve to death?” Stiles asks, still pacing.

“A long time,” Derek says, closing her eyes so she won’t have to watch Stiles’ endless circuits.  She’s feeling better, but not that much better. “And anyway, you’re not starving, you just ate.”

Derek opens her eyes in time to catch the tail end of the dubious look Stiles is aiming at her.

“Bread barely counts as food.”

Derek knocks the back of her head gently against the wall in silent frustration, closes her eyes again and doesn’t respond. 

Stiles goes back to pacing. 

When Stiles’ watch reads 10pm she stops pacing to announce the time and asks, “You think they’ll come back tonight?”

Derek shrugs.  If they’re into mind games they might.  If they’re lazy bastards they probably won’t.  Derek figures it’s about fifty-fifty. 

“Maybe,” she says, “probably not.  We should get some rest, in any case.”  She gives Stiles a pointed look. 

Stiles sighs and runs both hands through her hair in defeat.  She seems to be winding down, for which Derek is sincerely grateful.  Derek shrugs out of Stiles’ jacket, now dry again, and holds it out to Stiles.

Stiles hesitates.  “Are you, uh.  You can keep it, if you want.”  Stiles is still absently rubbing her arms but when she sees Derek looking she stops, self-conscious, and shoves her hands in her jeans pockets.  “You’re, you know.  Injured and stuff.” 

“I’m fine,” Derek says impatiently, and holds out her arms for inspection.  “All healed.  I run hot anyway; werewolf temperature regulation, remember?” She throws the jacket at Stiles’ head. 

Stiles catches it, huffs, and nods.  She wraps the jacket closely around herself and curls up on the floor next to Derek.  Derek lays down as well, her back to Stiles, facing the door just in case.

Stiles is asleep in minutes, apparently trusting that Derek will wake her if anything life-threatening shows up.  Stiles is definitely not at the top of the list of people Derek would like to be sharing a cell with, but for all her irritating traits Derek can think of worse companions.  Derek lies awake for hours, waiting for the door to open and listening to the even sound of Stiles’ breathing.  


	2. Chapter 2

The depot is in a terrible neighborhood.  No one wants to live by a failed transit system, so it’s over twenty-four hours before someone notices an abandoned blue Jeep in the lot and calls it in. 

An abandoned Jeep at the abandoned train station isn’t even close to the weirdest thing that’s happened recently in Beacon Hills, so as police reports go it’s not that alarming.  At least, not until they radio in the license plates and Greg Stilinski realizes that the SOP abandoned vehicle belongs to his daughter _._

He drives over immediately, of course, drops everything to go check it out.  If his growing suspicions are correct, Stiles has been missing for about 24 hours - he’d called Scott when Stiles had failed to either send her usual status-update/goodnight text or to answer her phone the night before, but Scott had said Stiles was helping him with a summer-school thing.  Greg had known Scott was lying, but if Scott is lying it’s generally because he knows the answer to the question and just isn’t telling.   Which means that if there _was_ a problem, he’d be telling the truth.  It’s a little perverse, but it’s a system that has worked fairly well for years, so Greg had left it at that. 

When he arrives, he finds Stiles’ Jeep just where the report said it would be.  Locked, no signs of struggle.  Maybe Stiles was exploring?  Maybe she fell, maybe she’s stuck somewhere, maybe she ran into some kind of trouble... Greg forces himself to concentrate, keeps one hand on his gun and goes to check out the depot. 

When he finds the fresh blood stains by the old train cars, and Stiles’ backpack sitting on a crate, everything in Greg’s world narrows to essentials.  He puts in the call to forensics, pulls everyone that can be spared off what they’re doing and puts them on this _._  He calls Scott McCall as he finishes inspecting the depot.  Scott is Stiles’ best friend, and even though the chances are minimal that this is some kind of horrible mistake, that it’s someone else’s blood, that Stiles left her backpack here for some reason and is out with a friend or, or something - there is that slim chance. 

Scott picks up on the first ring. 

“Mr. Stilinski?” Scott says.  There’s a worried note in his voice before Greg even says why he’s calling.  Scott is a pretty happy-go-lucky kind of kid, so if he’s worried it means he’s _been_ worried since Greg first called which means -

“Where’s Stiles?” Greg says, without preamble, “We’ve got her Jeep outside the old train depot, and her backpack in the building.  There’s fresh blood on the floor in here, kid.  Tell me you know where my daughter is right now.”

“ _Shit,”_ Scott says, which does not reassure Greg in the slightest.  “I mean, sorry Sheriff, I don’t - I haven’t seen her in two days, I don’t know, I - what else do you know?”

Greg is out of patience.  Stiles is a lousy liar and he’s known something was up, but he had no idea it was this bad, that Stiles was so far in over her head.  Greg _knows_ Scott knows something, he just isn’t sure what.   

“I don’t know what you kids have been up to,” Greg says, fighting to keep his voice even, “but if you know anything about where she might be you need to tell me right now _._ Whatever you’re into, you drop it now and _find her.”_

On the other end of the line, Scott is promising to do everything he can.  Greg hangs up, and goes up to the surface to wait for his deputies.  When they arrive there’s no chatter.  They all look as grim as Greg feels, and when they meet his eyes, Greg sees his own worry reflected back at him.  They just pull out gloves and cameras and notebooks and Greg shows them the bloodstains, leaves them to start processing the scene.  Greg concentrates on doing his job and reminds himself that panicking will not help his daughter.  Greg is very good at his job, and this is his area, but he has only felt this helpless once before in his life, and that was when he was watching his wife die.  He tries not to think too hard about that parallel.

***

Scott calls Derek first.  Calls five times in a row before realizing it’s worse than he thought.  His second call is to Allison.

“It’s Stiles,” he says, trying not to panic, “She’s gone, her Jeep’s at the depot, they’ve got blood on the ground.  I can’t raise Derek.  What do I _do?_ ”

“Oh my god,” Allison says, then, “Okay, any idea who has her?”

“ _No,_ ” Scott says, frantic, “but I think they have Derek too, only we have a truce with the hunters and I don’t know who else would go after them!”

“Come over,” Allison says, “We’ll find her, don’t worry.” 

***

Sandra has picked up some real winners since she and Derek last met. Bouncer’s given name seems to be Edward, and Derek would bet good money he’s too stupid to be accepted on any normal hunting team, too malicious to be trusted even in hunting circles.  Ratface is, somewhat appropriately, called Stu, and he’s tense, nervous and giggles entirely too much.

Larry though, Larry is a real piece of work.  He and his lab coat are inseparable and he seems to want to be treated like a _professional._ He’s disdainful of both Edward and Stu, but obsequious with Sandra - she’s provided him a test subject, after all.   

Larry, as it turns out, is experimenting in a creepy, pseudo-scientific sort of way.  He wants to know what’s most effective, how long injuries last, what knocks Derek out longest.  Larry records everything in a little notebook, nods significantly as he directs the others in most of the actual torture.  Every so often he rolls his eyes at Edward and Stu’s lack of finesse and steps in to take over himself.  Edward and Stu are just pleased to be allowed to beat on someone who can’t hit back.  Sandra observes.

It’s useful information, Derek tells herself as Larry jots down another observation.  She’ll remember it when she’s pulling their _intestines_ out through their _ears._

Electricity, as Derek already has reason to know, isn’t just immobilizing. The higher the voltage, the longer it takes the hum of electricity to vibrate out from under Derek’s skin.  If she’s hurt while the current is still twitching through her veins it’s like her body gets confused and can’t decide what to deal with first, the electricity or the injury.  It slows things down by a significant margin and Derek occupies herself by fantasizing viciously that one of them will slip and break his neck in the mess her blood is making of the floor. 

By the time they’re done with her, Derek isn’t remotely capable of moving under her own power and gets dragged semi-conscious back to the cell.  They don’t even need the wolfsbane ropes.

Stiles is prepared this time and catches her awkwardly when Edward slings her into the cell, helping her stumble away from the door.  Derek is too far gone to be of much help, she just grits her teeth and tries not to howl with pain as Stiles pulls them both over to the wall.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, sounding sick, staring down at the blood all over her hands and arms as Derek pants for breath on the floor next to her. “How do you even possess that much blood?”

“Looks worse than it is,” Derek says, closing her eyes.

“Really?” Stiles’ tone is skeptical. “Cuz it looks pretty bad from where I’m standing.”

“Just needs time to heal.”

“Okay, um.  Here, lie down. Let me look at that.”

Derek follows instructions, stretching out on her stomach, head pillowed on her arms, so Stiles can get a look at her injuries.  It’s mostly Derek’s back, covered in long, ugly gashes knitting themselves together sluggishly.  Her shirt is shredded _._ Stiles, kneeling by her side, lifts it away from Derek’s skin to get a better look and shakes her head.

“I can’t - shit, Derek, I don’t think there’s anything I can do.  We don’t have water, or bandages or anything.”

“S’okay,” Derek says, exhausted and half-asleep already. “It’ll fix itself.”

“If you say so,” Stiles says, and then she’s sliding her jacket under Derek’s head.  Derek, eyes closed, concentrating on healing, can feel Stiles’ presence hovering nearby until, with a soft sigh, she gets to her feet, pacing restless trails across the floor.  Derek tries to ignore it, but it’s distracting and everything hurts and she just needs everything to be _still,_ just for a little while.  Derek slits her eyes open and turns her head to snap, “Stiles! Stop - just _stop,_ will you? I can’t sleep with you doing that.”

Stiles turns, expression guilty, and runs both hands through her hair.

“Sorry,” she says, “Sorry, I’ll stop.”

She comes back over to Derek and Derek watches through half-closed eyes as Stiles checks her back again.  From the look on Stiles’ face it’s still not looking great. Stiles wrinkles her nose and scoots over until she’s sitting by Derek’s head.

“Alright, c’mere,” Stiles says, and tugs at Derek until Derek’s head is pillowed in Stiles’ lap.  Derek scowls and winces at the movement but it’s more comfortable than the floor, so she doesn’t complain. Stiles leans back against the wall and sighs. After a moment Derek feels tentative fingers threading through her hair and remembers that Stiles did this yesterday too.

“I -” Stiles clears her throat. “Is this okay?  Do you mind?”

Derek shakes her head no, and shifts to a more comfortable position, curling one arm around Stiles’ back, resting her hand in a loose grip on Stiles’ hip.  Stiles laughs a little and relaxes.  

“Okay then,” Stiles says. 

They stay like that a long time.   Once the gashes on Derek’s back seal shut - which takes far longer than it should - Stiles wraps Derek in her jacket again, the material abrasive against new skin but oddly comforting _._  Stiles doesn’t move, but she keeps her hands in Derek’s hair, fingers moving in a slow, gentle massage, smoothing, finger-combing the tangles, rubbing circles into the base of Derek’s neck.  It actually helps ease the persistent, low-grade headache Derek has had since the first Tasering, and Derek feels her pulse settle.

“What do they _want_?” Stiles asks, plaintive, when Derek’s breathing has slowed to something approaching normal.  She sounds very young.

Derek shakes her head against Stiles’ leg.  “They’re hunters _,_ ” she says bitterly, “do they need a reason?”

They haven’t once asked her anything, not about her pack, nothing.  It’s almost worse that they haven’t.  Maybe they’re trying to soften her up for something, but maybe that’s all this is - a marriage of convenience between Sandra and her assorted flunkies.  A clean kill Derek can understand - on some level anyway - and she understands interrogation and revenge, but Larry...Larry is a new level of disturbing. 

Above her, Stiles is silent, but her fingers keep stroking through Derek’s hair.

“I think Sandra wants revenge,” Derek admits, after a moment.  “The professionals don’t toy with their food like this, not unless it’s personal.” Derek frowns, “But I barely know her!  Back in New York...it was just pranks.  We didn’t hurt her or anything.”

“Yeah, they’re not actually that professional though,” Stiles points out.  “They’ve got great equipment and everything, standard issue pedo-van, dungeon, assorted weaponry etcetera - but they didn’t do their research.  They grabbed the Sheriff’s kid off the streets, and it might take a little while for anyone to notice, but it’s still not exactly low profile.  You said yourself they’re amateurs.”

Derek, whose initial assessment is undergoing some serious revision, thinks about commenting that Larry, for one, seemed awfully _professional_ with his _fucking knife,_ but decides that’s probably need-to-know information.

“They’re not the brightest bulbs in the box,” she agrees instead, then adds, “You know his name is Larry _?_ ”

“I - what?  Larry? Who’s Larry?” Stiles is nonplussed.

“The, you know,” Derek makes a vague, all-encompassing gesture, “Sandra’s head goon.”

“Oh,” Stiles sits back against the wall. “You mean Dr. Mengele?”

Derek snorts; Stiles is closer to the mark than she knows.  “Yeah, him.” 

“Larry.” Stiles repeats flatly, “Seriously?I don’t know what I was expecting, but that...was not it.  It seems so...normal _._ ”

Derek isn’t really sure what to say to that - “Kate” is a pretty normal name, too.  She shrugs a little, then remembers she’s not moving for a while and stops with a grimace, trying to find a comfortable position without actually moving.  Above her, Stiles’ hands still, waiting for Derek to settle.  Derek gives up after a moment, closes her eyes and feels Stiles fingers work their way back into Derek’s hair.

“This sucks,” Stiles says, voice soft, and there’s not really a good response to that either, so Derek just nods a little and lets herself drift.

Stiles jolts when the door opens some time later and Derek, caught by surprise ( _again_ ) lurches to her feet.  It’s Edward, backed by Stu with a gun.  He grins at them, and tosses what looks like a whole chicken and a couple of bottles of water at Derek’s feet before slamming the door shut again. 

Derek looks over to find Stiles standing at her side, staring down at what is apparently meant to be dinner.

“Is that...”

“Raw chicken.” Derek says. 

Derek feels her face burn.  It’s an insult; kind of hard to miss it.  She’s not human enough to merit cooked food.

Beside her, Stiles swallows, the sound loud in the stillness of the cell.

“I can’t,” Stiles says, “I can’t eat that.  I’d get salmonella or something.  Also, that’s gross,” Stiles offers, trying to make light of it. “Um.  It won’t kill you, right?”

“No,” Derek says, voice tight. “I can eat it.”

“Well,” Stiles says, aiming for cheerful, “At least one of us can.  And look, _two_ bottles of water this time!”  She falters for a moment, then shrugs. “You did tell me not to push my luck.” 

“Is there any bread left?” Derek asks, looking around.

“Um, a bit,” Stiles says.  “We ate most of the rest of it this morning.”

Derek presses her lips together and nods. This is a message, and it’s meant for her.  Stiles is probably an unintended side effect. For Derek, this is a particular kind of humiliation; for Stiles however, it means going hungry.  Derek finds she can’t decide which she’s most angry about. 

Stiles eats the rest of the bread as Derek works her way through the chicken.  It is pretty gross but she makes herself eat all of it - she needs the energy.  When she’s done - which doesn't take long, it's not a very _big_ chicken - she tosses the bones into the corner by the door, and licks her fingers as clean as she can get them.  

When Derek glances over at Stiles she catches her poking around in the bread bag for crumbs.  Stiles sees Derek looking and sets the bag aside, blushing.  Somewhat to Derek’s surprise, she doesn’t complain about being hungry.  Derek finds it oddly unsettling and eyes Stiles as she shivers a little from her place by the wall. Derek shrugs out of Stiles’ jacket and hands it back to her.  Stiles nods her thanks and wraps it around herself like a blanket, curling into a ball on the floor, still shivering. Stiles doesn’t have a lot of body fat to begin with, and between the cold and the terror and the lack of food, she doesn’t have a whole lot going for her, insulation-wise.

Even Derek feels it a little; most of her available energy has been going towards healing.  The chicken helped a lot, but Derek is still not exactly in peak condition.

Derek sighs, drinks half her bottle of water, and lays down next to Stiles, curled up facing the door. Derek isn’t anticipating having any trouble falling asleep - she’s exhausted - but Stiles is fidgeting behind her, tossing and turning in an effort to get comfortable on the cold concrete floor.  Eventually she settles down, but after a few minutes Derek becomes aware that Stiles is inching steadily closer, until her back is pressed right up against Derek’s.  Derek can feel her shivering and shifts a little to press back against Stiles, feels Stiles relax in response. Derek smiles to herself; Stiles isn't nearly as sneaky as she thinks she is, but Derek's not going to call her out on it.                  

Derek wakes up significantly warmer than she had been when she fell asleep to find Stiles plastered against her back like a particularly gangly barnacle.  Derek can feel Stiles’ breath warm against the side of her neck and Stiles has one arm draped over Derek’s waist.  Stiles shifts a little and Derek places her own arm over Stiles’ and leans back, fitting them together more securely.  In the morning she’ll pretend this never happened, but right now she’s warm and as comfortable as it’s possible to be while sleeping on concrete. She hasn’t gotten this close to anyone, for any reason other than pure necessity, since Laura.  This is necessity too, of a sort, but still it’s...nice.  Stiles isn’t family, isn’t even pack, really, but Derek somehow feels less alone than she has in a long time.  She slips back into sleep before she can think too hard about what that means. 


	3. Chapter 3

The third day is baseball bat day, which is about as much fun as it sounds.

When they toss Derek back into the cell, Stiles catches her by her still-broken arms and Derek just barely chokes back a scream.  Stiles goes sickly pale as Derek’s bones shift under her hands, but she keeps it together, guiding Derek over to the wall and helping her straighten everything out so it can heal properly.

When Stiles gets to Derek’s right leg she turns faintly green and closes her eyes, taking a few deep breaths before opening them again. 

“I kicked Edward in the crotch,” Derek says, by way of explanation. “He’ll be pissing blood for a week.”

“Was that a good idea?” Stiles asks, expression queasy as she examines Derek’s leg.

“Worth it.” Derek replies.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, closing her eyes again. “Derek, I don’t think there’s any bone _left_ to straighten.”

“It’ll heal,” Derek says, gritting her teeth. “Just do your best.” And then she concentrates on breathing, and on not throwing up - she can’t afford to lose the calories.

When Stiles has done everything she can she resumes her position from yesterday. Derek stares at the ceiling, head resting on Stiles’ leg, struggling to keep her face blank.  From the overt concern in Stiles’ brown eyes when she looks down at Derek, she’s probably not succeeding.

“Um,” Stiles says, lifting one hand, “Do you, uh, want something to hold on to?”

Derek gives her head a sharp jerk of negation and closes her eyes tight against the dizziness. “No, that’s - I’d break your hand,” she says.

“Oh,” Stiles says, and then, “Is there anything I can do?  Or, sorry, I guess I’ll shut up and let you rest...”

Stiles trails off and Derek opens her eyes again to see Stiles worrying at her lower lip with her teeth, expression tense.

“No,” Derek says, “You don’t have to - you could...talk?  If you want.”

In all honesty, _anything_ would be better than just sitting here, thinking about Sandra and her hunters and the way the pulverized bits of her bones are fitting themselves back together piece by tiny piece.  Stiles talking would be a welcome distraction, Derek’s not going to ask outright though - she doesn’t _do_ asking for favors.

“Really?” Stiles raises both her eyebrows. “You _want_ me to talk to you?”

 Derek shuts her eyes against a wave of pain and says, “Not a standing offer.”

“Noted,” Stiles says, but she sounds pleased.    

Stiles strokes her hair and gives her water when Derek thinks she can stomach it. She’s awkward at first - given free rein to talk she seems unsure where to start.  She gets steadier as Derek’s bones knit back together and the harsh rasp of Derek’s breathing starts to even out. 

Stiles talks about school, about books she’s read and what’s on TV, sports and movies and music.  She talks about Scott, carefully avoiding his name, just in case anyone is listening.  Derek drifts in and out - it doesn’t really matter _what_ Stiles is saying, just the sound of her voice is soothing...which is weird in and of itself because Stiles is not exactly a restful personality.    

“So I was pretty sure that if we looked hard enough we could probably find Aragog, or, like, you know.  A cousin or something.  All forests are related, right, and all forests have spiders, ergo, Aragog. Or Shelob, whichever, I wasn’t super picky.  The point is, we were _questing,_ right?  Epic disaster.  We’re like, eight years old and my friend’s asthmatic and we keep losing his inhaler...”

Derek shifts, wincing as still-healing bones grate against each other with a painful rasp. 

“Hold still, you idiot,” Stiles says, interrupting her story and tugging gently at Derek’s hair.

Derek scowls.  “It itches _._ ”Broken bones always itch like hell when they’re healing. 

Stiles looks down at her and frowns.  “Go to sleep, you’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Derek grumbles, but closes her eyes and does her best to follow instructions.  She focuses on the sound of Stiles’ voice, the movements of her hands through Derek’s hair.  Eventually, she slips back into sleep.  

 

****

 

Derek wakes up starving but whole.  She sits up and stretches.  Everything seems to have healed properly, she’s just tired and sore and _ravenous._  It seems like ages since the chicken - and it’s been longer for Stiles.  Stiles is asleep, head leaning against the wall, mouth hanging slightly open.  She’s pale and pinched and there are dark circles under her eyes.  Derek clenches her fists and hopes that whatever they get fed today will be human-safe. 

It turns out to be beef.  It’s literally a slab of raw cow that gets tossed into the cell along with a single bottle of tepid water.

Derek grinds her teeth for a few moments before Stiles says, “Okay, seriously, this is disgusting.  What’s the deal here?  I take back all the nasty things I said about bread and water, let’s do that again, huh?”

Derek sighs. “I think we’re out of luck,” she says with a grimace, “It’s this or nothing.”

“Ugh _,_ ” Stiles says, with great depth of feeling, “I can’t eat that.”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Derek tells her, “Not like the chicken.  You can eat it.”  

“Um, no, I can’t,” Stiles retorts, crossing her arms. “What about e-coli?”

Derek sniffs at the meat, smells nothing out of the ordinary and rolls her eyes.  “There’s no e-coli.”

“How do you know?  I’m pretty sure you can’t _smell_ e-coli.”

“It doesn’t smell off, and e-coli is for _ground_ beef at cheap fast-food joints.  It’s fine.”

“If I try to eat that I will throw up.”

It has now been two days since Stiles has eaten anything of substance.  Derek narrows her eyes, lets a little red bleed into them.

“No you won’t,” she says, in her most don’t-fuck-with-me Alpha voice. “You have to eat and it won’t kill you.  I’ve had worse on full moon nights.”

“Yes,” Stiles says, “because you’re a werewolf and you _do_ things like that.”

It’s a little too close to home, and Derek glares.

“Oh, grow up Stiles,” she snaps, tearing the steak in two and holding half of it out to Stiles.  “It’s fucking steak tartar.  Develop an appreciation for the finer things in life.”

“No.” Stiles says, jaw set at its most stubborn angle, just as her stomach growls its disapproval of the recent feeding regimen. Stiles looks briefly abashed, but then raises her chin in defiance and stares Derek down. 

“Stiles?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up and eat your cow or I swear to god when we get out of here I’ll take your Jeep apart and sell it for scrap metal.”

Stiles hesitates.

“I’ll push it off the nearest cliff,” Derek says, eyes narrowed, “And I’ll make it look like an accident.”

Stiles eyes her for a moment, assessing her credibility, then takes the hunk of meat with a moue of distaste. 

“I hate you a lot right now,” she informs Derek.

“Yeah yeah,” Derek mutters back, “thank me later.”

Stiles eats the meat. 

She doesn’t throw up.

Derek’s half of the meat is gone almost before she’s realized she’d started eating.  Even with the chicken yesterday, this is...it’s better than nothing, obviously, but it’s a drop in the bucket to a werewolf’s metabolism.  It’s not enough, wouldn’t be even without factoring in all the energy Derek’s expending to heal.  Derek catches herself watching Stiles as she works her way methodically through her own portion; she jerks her gaze away when Stiles sees her looking.

“What?” Stiles says, swallowing with a grimace.  “I’m eating already, jeez...” Stiles trails off and her eyes widen.  She holds out what’s left of the steak.  “Derek, this is seriously gross.  You would legitimately be doing me a favor if you took it off my hands.”

Derek hates herself for hesitating.

“Eat your damn food, Stiles,” Derek snaps, and retreats in a hurry to the back corner where she won’t have to watch Stiles eat. 

Stiles wrinkles her nose, but finishes the meat in silence.  

 

***

 

Some time later Stiles is lying on the floor, poking at a bruise on her shoulder from the last time Edward flung her against the wall while retrieving Derek.  Each time they come for Derek, Stiles - well, she gets in the way, mostly; bitches them out while they’re dragging Derek out the door. It’s not that Stiles is trying to take them on or anything, they all know that’s not going to happen.  It’s just, she seems constitutionally incapable of holding still, or holding her tongue for that matter.  Edward, big and dumb and ugly, is an easy target and Stiles takes obvious pleasure in verbally flaying him until he gets fed up and knocks her into a wall to shut her up.   Derek has been preoccupied, trying to keep herself together, and Stiles is so _relentlessly,_ irrepressibly, knee-jerk contrary. Derek has figured if Stiles wants to mouth off, well, that’s her prerogative. Keeping Stiles from running her mouth is an exercise in futility at the best of times. 

 Derek forgets that for all Stiles talks like she’s invulnerable, she’s still only human.  Sandra’s hunters have been restrained with Stiles thus far, only using as much force as is necessary to keep her out of the way.  But some of the comments Edward has been making the past couple of days during Derek’s...sessions...are starting to make Derek nervous. 

If she’s honest with herself, Derek can admit that part of the reason she hasn’t said anything until now is that it feels _good_ that someone cares enough to fight for her.  Even if it’s just Stiles using the sharp edge of her tongue, even if it does nothing but make the hunters angry.  Even so, on some gut level it makes Derek feel less alone, like Stiles has her back - morally if not physically.  Still.  Derek has let it go long enough.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles turns her head to look at her.

“What?”

“Don’t antagonize them.”

“What?”

Derek rolls her eyes.  “You heard me.  Quit mouthing off.”

Stiles props herself up on her elbows and, oh, crap _,_ Derek thinks wearily.  In the broad and varied collection of Stilinski facial expressions, the one Stiles is wearing now is among the more mutinous Derek has been privy to so far.

“You’re joking right?  Stupid insults are _literally_ the only weapons at my disposal.”

“Yeah?  How’s that working out for you?” 

“Swell,” Stiles says, sitting up all the way and narrowing her eyes at Derek. “What’s eating you, anyway?  I’m bored!  So bored, you have no idea.”

 _You’re breakable,_ Derek doesn’t say.  Instead, she lets her eyes flare red and says, “You’re a liability _._ ”

Stiles flinches and looks away.  Something in Derek’s gut twinges a little, but she presses on anyway.  Derek doesn’t fight fair, she fights to _win._  

“You’re just making it worse.”

Stiles flinches again and her lips thin to an unhappy line. Derek closes her eyes briefly and leans her head back against the wall.  It’s not even a lie, which makes it more believable - Edward is more inclined to be vicious when he’s still visibly smarting from Stiles’ comments.  But it’s not the whole truth either; Derek thinks the entertainment value is worth it, but not if it’s going to attract unwanted attention to Stiles.

“Just don’t, Stiles, okay?” Derek says, and some of what she’s feeling must have crept into her voice, because Stiles gives her a hard look, and then a jerky, reluctant nod.  

“Fine,” Stiles says, the set of her shoulders tense and unhappy. 

Derek decides that’s probably the best she’s going to get from Stiles, so she lets it drop.  Stiles spends the next hour sulking though.  This is fine by Derek; she doesn’t need Stiles to be _happy,_ she just needs her to follow instructions. 

Eventually Derek lays down to sleep.  Across the cell, Stiles fidgets and twitches, then sighs and crosses back to Derek. Derek props herself up on one elbow and gestures at the patch of ground just in front of her. 

“Come on,” she says, “You’ll be warmer this way.”

Stiles hesitates, then sinks down next to Derek and curls up facing the door. Derek reaches out and tugs Stiles against her.  For a moment, Stiles is tense and awkward, but then she relaxes with a small, surprised sound and presses back against Derek.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, wondering, “You’re like a _furnace._ ”

“Yeah, well, I can’t sleep over the sound of your teeth chattering.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, “Whatever Derek, I promise not to tell anyone you’re secretly a big gooey marshmallow.”

Derek growls in Stiles’ ear, but Stiles just laughs.

“Shut up and go to sleep before I change my mind,” Derek says, warning.

“Shutting up, shutting up!” Stiles says, huddling closer, like Derek might actually change her mind and she’s trying to soak up as much warmth as possible in the meantime.

Derek grins a little, smug, and settles in, making sure she has a clear line of sight to the door over Stiles’ head.

Stiles’ persistent shivers have subsided completely and Derek is almost asleep when she hears Stiles whisper, “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Derek says.

 

****

It takes a full two days to track down Isaac, Erica and Boyd, and to follow up on all their paltry leads.  Scott and the betas go over the depot with a fine-tooth comb, careful to avoid Sheriff Stilinski and his officers, but all they get is Stiles and blood and a jumble of unfamiliar scents. 

“I can’t smell anything,” Scott says, frustrated, “There’s been too many people here!  I should have gotten here earlier, before -”

“Before the cops contaminated your crime scene?” Lydia asks, her eyebrows raised. 

“I - yes, exactly.”

Allison frowns.  “Can you go visit the station and, I don’t know, smell everyone?  Then anything that’s left -”

“Process of elimination,” Lydia says, twisting a curl around one finger.  “I like the way you think Allison.”

“Maybe,” Scott says, doubtful, “but everything is so tangled up I don’t know that we could sort it out even then.”

If they’d had longer with their werewolf senses, Scott thinks they might have been able to track them down, but they’re still painfully new at this.  Scott has never regretted not taking Derek up on her offers of werewolf-senses training more than he does right now.   Of the four new werewolves, Scott has the most experience and he still has no idea what he’s doing.  

“I could ask my dad...” Allison offers, and Scott thinks about it for a second, but then shakes his head.  He still doesn’t trust Chris Argent.  He remembers Mr. Argent helping when Jackson was the Kanima, but he also remembers Mr. Argent holding a gun to his head and threatening to blow him away. 

“No,” Scott says, “No, we’ll go to Dr. Deaton first.”

 Dr. Deaton is utterly useless. 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he says when they show up en masse at the clinic.  “Bring me a problem to solve and I’ll see what I can do, but kidnapping?  That’s outside my expertise.”

Scott growls in frustration and they end up going to Chris Argent after all, despite Scott’s misgivings.  Stiles is human.  It’ll have to be enough.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a pattern emerging.

The pattern is shaping up like this: mornings are boring.  Stiles paces, Derek tries to think up escape plans that don’t end in Stiles getting killed (all of her escape plans end with Stiles getting killed).

Afternoons are for Larry’s “experiments,” each of which has its own new and exciting theme.  The first was electricity.   The second was knives.  Yesterday was bats.  Evenings are for rest and food (for a given value of food) and reining in the terror of the thought that it will start all over again tomorrow.  

Nights are for sleep.  Well, sleep and nightmares.

On the fourth day Stiles stands, vibrating with repressed energy, at the back of the cell when they come for Derek.  It’s like holding her tongue is a physical effort.  Derek, fighting her usual hopeless battle with the Tasers, is somewhat preoccupied, but even so Stiles’ unhappiness about acquiescing to Derek’s request is almost palpable.

Day Four is the worst day yet, because day four is _fire._

Derek is hanging from the shackles, limp and aching everywhere _,_ when Sandra starts getting chatty.

“Kate was my mentor, you know,” she says, watching Derek closely, and Derek jerks her head up to stare at Sandra in disbelief.

“What?” Derek says, hoarse with screaming, “What did you say?”

“I met her a few years after I met you.  She bought me a drink and told me how she infiltrated the Hale pack and burned them to ashes.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Derek says, raw and ragged.

“Other way around, sweetie,” Sandra says, and Derek flinches.  Kate used to call her that. Sandra notices and laughs, leaning in to pull Derek’s hair away from her face and whisper in her ear, “Kate taught me everything I know, and when I’m done avenging her with you I’ll move on to your pack.”

“I don’t have a pack,” Derek says.  “Kate killed them all, remember?”

“Awww, it’s cute you think you can lie to me.” Sandra says.  “I know you’ve been rebuilding.  And I know you’d never tell us who’s in your pack and where they’re hiding out, but it really doesn’t matter.  When we’re ready to find them we’ll just take you back to Beacon Hills and wait for an ill-advised rescue attempt.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time,” Derek tells her and she’s not even sure it’s a lie. Scott will come for Stiles, but Derek is actually not at all sure the others would risk anything just to help Derek.  Derek kind of hopes they won’t - she’s done enough damage as it is.

“I can wait.” Sandra says, eyes going cold again.

“I didn’t kill Kate,” Derek says, bone-tired. “I wish I had but it wasn’t me.”

“Doesn’t matter.  You were there and you’re all the same.”

“You realize that doesn’t actually make sense, right?” Derek says, even though there’s really no point in reasoning with Sandra.

“I’m a hunter, I kill monsters.” Sandra says with a shrug.  “Your uncle killed his nurse, a human who was helping him.  He killed your _sister._ No one is safe - not allies, not even family _._ You clearly can’t be trusted.”

“Whereas hunters _can_ be trusted?  Tell me how Kate burning my _human cousins_ alive falls under the category of ‘monster killing’.”  Derek takes a deep breath; she shouldn’t let Sandra get to her like this, it’s playing right into her hands.

“Collateral damage,” Sandra says, “And anyway, monster-sympathizers are almost as bad as the monsters themselves.”

“You’re sick,” Derek tells her, voice flat. "Someone should have had you committed years ago.”

“Oh, I’m quite sane, just very...focused.  And as you can see, I’ve learned a lot since you last saw me.  I’m not the little girl you met in New York.”

“No, she wasn’t a psychopath with delusions of grandeur.” Derek spent a fair amount of time watching Sandra in New York, distracting herself from her grief with petty pranks. She knows exactly where to hit Sandra hardest, and she channels that knowledge, makes her voice silky and vicious and relentless as she spits her own truth back in Sandra’s face. “You’ll always be that little girl though - she was useless and pathetic and desperate for approval too.  You might be a little older, and a little crazier, and found yourself some rejects to play hunter with, but you’re still just as useless and pathetic and desperate now as you were then.”

Derek rocks with it when Sandra slaps her.

“Face it, Sandy,” Derek says, spitting blood, “You caught me off guard, but it still took four of you.  You’ll never be a real hunter.”

Derek watches with satisfaction as Sandra snarls at her.  Then Sandra pulls herself together and beckons to her goons, standing at a respectful distance on the edges of the room. 

“She’s all yours Larry,” Sandra says, holding Derek’s gaze.  “I have some errands to run.  Don’t kill her yet, I want to be here.”

Derek holds the stare until Sandra turns away, then she braces herself as Larry pulls out his notepad and Edward walks towards her holding a piece of metal that glows white-hot at one end.

Derek passes out before they’re quite done, throat raw and gagging on the stench of burning flesh and years of nightmares.  When she wakes up she’s back in the cell.  Stiles is holding her gingerly, rocking, her voice a persistent murmur.  “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, please, _please_ don’t leave me. Derek, come back, don’t leave, don’t you _dare_ leave me…”

Derek keeps her eyes closed and just breathes for a moment, so grateful to be away from Sandra and her hunters she could cry.  But Stiles is sounding increasingly desperate, so Derek forces herself to open her eyes.

“Not dead yet,” Derek manages to croak, and is rewarded with a laugh that is edged with more than a little hysteria.

“Oh my _god,_ ” Stiles says, bending forward to rest her forehead against Derek’s shoulder, “Oh my god, I thought you were _dead._ I thought you were dead and then I thought you were _dying_ and you wouldn’t wake up and I thought I was going to be all alone -”

Stiles cuts herself off, takes a deep breath.  Derek licks at dry, cracked lips with a parched tongue.  Her skin feels too small and itchy, like all the moisture has been sucked out of her body; and who knows?  Between the blood loss and the burns and the healing, maybe it has been. 

“Water?” She asks, hating how pathetic she sounds, and Stiles scrabbles for what’s left of their stash.  Derek drinks all of it, can’t make herself stop, and it’s still not enough to wash the taste of smoke out of her mouth.  When it’s gone she curls up, shaking, and lets Stiles hold her, lets Stiles stroke her hair and murmur soothing nonsense while Derek’s body puts itself back together.   Stiles has wrapped her jacket around Derek’s shoulders again, and Derek clutches it like a lifeline, dignity be damned.  Derek loses some time, drifting in and out of consciousness.   She wakes when the cell door opens, but it’s just today’s pitiful excuse for a meal. 

When Derek is finally able to pull herself upright, Stiles moves away from the wall to retrieve their rations, comes back and hands Derek two Lunabars and a fresh bottle of water with an apologetic grimace.

“I know,” she says, in response to Derek’s raised eyebrows, “I’m sure they think they’re _hilarious.”_

Derek is hungry enough to eat _Stiles,_ at this point.  It takes energy to heal, and Derek is dangerously low on energy.  Each injury takes longer than the last to repair itself, even without the electricity screwing things up.  Derek inhales both Lunabars without thinking about it, only realizing when they’re gone that she hasn’t seen Stiles eat anything.  Derek darts an accusing look at Stiles, who stares back, all wide-eyed innocence, and says, “What?” 

“Tell me there were four of those stupid Lunabars.” Derek says, throat tight.

“There were four of those stupid Lunabars,” Stiles parrots back.

“ _Lie,_ ” Derek says, glaring.

“I hate Lunabars.  And anyway I’m not hungry,” Stiles says, just as her stomach emits an emphatic gurgle.

Derek raises both eyebrows in disbelief.  Stiles flushes, the first color in her pale face for ages, and looks away.

“You needed it,” Stiles mumbles, twisting one of the wrappers in her hands. 

“That’s _not how this works -_ ” Derek starts, but Stiles cuts her off, glaring.

“These things have, what, a hundred and eighty calories each?”  Stiles waves a wrapper in Derek’s face.  “I paid attention in health class, and guess what?  Human adults need about two thousand calories a day and I’ve seen you eat, Derek.  You eat, like, three times what normal people do.  At least.  My mental math’s not that great, but three hundred and sixty calories out of six thousand?  That’s not a good ratio.”

Derek stares at Stiles, nonplussed, but Stiles isn’t done yet.

“I don’t know how long it takes a werewolf to starve to death but I’m guessing it goes a lot quicker if the werewolf in question has to re-grow half her skin and four pints of blood once every twenty-four hours on rations that wouldn’t feed a squirrel!”  Stiles is breathing hard and she doesn’t look angry anymore, she looks tired and frightened.  “When they brought you back today...” Stiles trails off and shakes her head. “Derek, I thought you were dead.”

“I -” Derek pauses, rephrases.  “Stiles, I’m not dead.  It takes more than that to kill a werewolf.” 

“Oh, good,” Stiles says acidly, “I’m glad you can be blasé about this.  You were out for over three hours _._ I had to check twice to make sure you were still _breathing._ ”

Derek just looks at Stiles.  She’s not really sure how to respond to this.  Stiles’ heart-rate is up, her breath is coming faster than it should be - she’s terrified, Derek realizes.  Scared _for_ Derek.  No one’s been afraid for her in - a long time.  A really long time. It hurts in a way Derek had forgotten she _could_ hurt; a bittersweet pain in her chest.

“I’m fine,” Derek says, forcing a smile, “Look, fine.  It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” Stiles snaps and looks away, hands twisting in her lap. “And stop trying to be reassuring, you look like a ghoul when you smile like that.”

“Fine,” Derek says, sinking back into a comfortable scowl. “It’s not okay, but we’re both still alive and in the interests of keeping it that way, no more unilateral decisions.”

It’s an order, not a request.  Stiles glowers, but gives Derek a reluctant nod, and, brazen creature, holds out the water bottle.  Derek snorts, drinks a quarter of it, and hands it back. 

“Really, Sourwolf?” Stiles says, incredulous.  “I think you’ve got more, like, fluids and body mass to replace than I do.”

“What did I just say? _”_ Derek snaps, glaring.  She continues glaring until Stiles sighs and drinks some of the water. 

That night, curled together on the hard concrete floor, Stiles is stiff and unyielding in Derek’s arms and she can’t seem to stop shaking.  Derek is still wearing Stiles’ jacket, kept for the sake of modesty in deference to her ruined shirt, but she’s wrapped the edges of it around Stiles as far as she can.

“Stiles,” Derek says, “Stiles, come on, relax.”

Stiles doesn’t relax.  She curls into herself even more tightly and puts her hands over her face.  “We’re getting out of here, right?”  The question is a bare whisper of sound. “We’re going to be okay and the others will find us and we’ll be okay, right?”

Stiles is more rattled now than she has been at any other point in this whole ugly ordeal.  Derek passing out for so long has made her tense and jumpy, wound tight as a spring.  Derek is the one getting tortured, but it can’t be easy for Stiles either.  Derek knows that once they’re done with her they’ll kill Stiles too.  If nothing else, Stiles has seen far, far too much.   And Stiles isn’t stupid - the same thought must have crossed her mind.   Derek orchestrating some kind of escape is the best chance for both of them, and Derek’s not doing so well at the moment.  Even at the best of times, the wolfsbane rope that’s still lying in the corner of the cell makes her weak.  The cell is solid and for all Derek’s earlier assessments, Sandra and her hunters are actually fairly competent; they’re cautious and they don’t take dumb chances that would give Derek an opportunity for escape or attack.  Stiles is right to be terrified.

Derek pulls Stiles closer, rubs one hand up and down Stiles’ bare arm in an attempt to warm her, stop her near-constant shivers.  Stiles is, as a general rule, pretty tough.  She is also, Derek remembers, only sixteen.

“We’re going to be fine,” Derek lies smoothly.  She’s grateful, for once, that Stiles is human and can’t hear the tell-tale irregularity in her pulse.

“Derek,” Stiles says, face still buried in her hands, her voice muffled. “Don’t leave me, okay? Don’t...just don’t.”

Derek rests her chin against the top of Stiles’ head and tightens her embrace.  “I won’t,” she lies, “I won’t, you’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“We,” Stiles says, tensing against her, pulling away and turning to look Derek in the eye.  “ _We’ll_ be fine.”

“Right,” Derek says, cursing herself, “That’s what I meant.” 

Stiles holds the stare a moment longer, then lays back down, muttering, “Yeah it better be.”

Derek exhales with a sigh and pulls Stiles closer.  Stiles still hasn’t relaxed completely, but she lays her right arm over Derek’s, anchoring, and huddles back against Derek.

“This isn’t your fault Derek, you know that, right?  You’re not responsible for this.”

Derek tenses and almost pulls away, but Stiles’ hand clamps down on her wrist.  Derek forces herself to relax and feels Stiles’ grip on her wrist loosen in response.  “I know,” Derek says, because if she doesn’t Stiles will never shut up about it, and this is a conversation Derek never wants to have, ever. “Go to sleep.”

Much to Derek’s relief, Stiles lets it drop.  She doesn’t let go of Derek’s arm though, and Derek falls asleep with Stiles’ long, cool fingers resting against the pulse-point of her wrist.

Derek dreams of scorching fire and suffocating smoke; wakes choking on panic and despair, shame and guilt.  She’s wrapped herself around Stiles like a protective cocoon.  Stiles is murmuring low, turning to brush Derek’s hair out of her face, tactfully ignoring the dampness on Derek’s cheeks.

“Derek. Derek there’s no fire.  It was a dream, there’s no fire.”

Derek takes a shuddering breath.  There is no fire.  Her family is dead. _Kate_ is dead. Stiles is here and alive and there’s no fire and they’re still prisoners, but Derek is not alone.  Derek closes her eyes, pulls Stiles close and lets the steady beat of Stiles’ heart ease her back to sleep.

 

 

***

 

It’s been three days now since they started looking for Stiles and Derek, and they’re all run ragged.  The depot is a crime scene and none of the wolves feel comfortable at Allison’s place so they end up headquartered at Scott’s house.  None of them have slept more than a few hours at a stretch and they’re running out of blind leads to follow.  Around four in the afternoon Allison grabs her keys and heads out the door for takeout; she needs some fresh air. 

She’s just finished paying for a small mountain of Chinese food and is trying to figure out how to carry it all when someone taps her on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, Allison?”

Allison turns to see a striking woman with long, dark hair, dark eyes and a chic leather jacket standing next to her.

“Yes?”

“Allison Argent?” The woman says, smiling.  “I’m Sandra, I knew your Aunt Kate.”

For a moment Allison just stares at her, dumbstruck, and then the woman is saying, “I heard what happened, I’m so sorry for your loss.  She was a good friend of mine. I just - Kate talked about you all the time and I saw you just now and thought, no, it can’t be Kate’s little Allison, but then I thought I’d just introduce myself and, you know.  Say hello.   You look just like Kate’s pictures - though you’re older now, of course. Oh, here, let me help you with that.”

The woman - Sandra - reaches out towards the bags of takeout, and Allison allows her to help carry the bags out to Allison’s car.

“Thanks,” Allison says, as they finish loading the bags, and then, “I - you knew Aunt Kate?”

“Yes we...she was my...mentor, I guess you could say.  ”

Nobody that claims Kate as a mentor is anybody Allison is interested in chatting with.  Allison makes herself smile anyway. 

“She was?” Allison says, “That’s crazy bumping into you - um...”

“Sandra,” Sandra says with a smile, holding out her hand. “Sandra MacAllister. I don’t blame you being flustered, me coming out of nowhere like that.”

“Not at all,” Allison lies, shaking Sandra’s hand, falling back on years of training in polite small talk.  “It’s so good to meet you.  Just, it’s been...it’s been really hard, you know?  It’s nice to meet someone else who knew her.”

“I know,” Sandra says, nodding. “I heard about your mother as well - it’s a small community, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Allison says, blinking against the sting behind her eyes, “It really is.”

Sandra reaches out and pats Allison’s arm in a way Allison assumes is meant to be reassuring but mostly comes off as creepy.  “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry to bring up bad memories.  It looks like you’re getting food for a crowd, but, can I take you for coffee sometime?  Kate spoke so highly of you and I’d love to talk.”

“I - ” Allison hesitates.  Sandra is clearly trying to be nice, but something about her sets Allison’s teeth on edge.  Even apart from the connection with her aunt it’s just...weird that Sandra has showed up like this.  On the one hand, chatting up old friends of Kate’s is the last thing she has time for while Stiles and Derek are missing.  On the other hand... Stiles and Derek are _missing_ , and the timing is suspicious. 

“Sure,” Allison says, “I’d like that.”

Sandra beams, takes a pen and a slip of paper out of her purse and hands it to Allison.  “Here,” she says, “Give me your number.  I’m in and out of town, but I’ll give you a call sometime.  Sound good?”

Allison writes out her number and hands the paper back to Sandra. “Sounds good,” she says, “I’ll look forward to it.”

Allison is distracted all the way back to Scott’s house.  She spaces out waiting for a light and is startled into motion when it turns only after the car behind her gives an angry honk.

“Scott,” she calls as she maneuvers the pile of takeout into the house, “Scott something really weird just happened, I met this woman and -”

“ _Why do you smell like Derek?_ ”

The pack has come to the door to help with the food and all of them are frozen, staring at her. Erica, who has never quite forgiven Allison for shooting her that time, looks ready to tear Allison apart.

“You smell like Derek,” Erica says again, her voice tight.

“...what?” Allison says, and she’s a _hunter,_ dammit, why does she always, _always_ freeze up at times like these?

“Whoa whoa,” Scott says, pushing forward, “What’s going on?  What happened?”

“I - Oh my god,” Allison says.  She sets the takeout carefully on the floor and says, “I met this woman!  She came up to me and said she was an old friend of Kate’s!  She was, I dunno, she was kind of creepy and I thought it was weird but - I think this is it.  We’ve found them!”

Erica takes a step forward.  She looks like she’s a heartbeat away from ripping Allison’s head off.  Allison takes a deep breath and stands her ground.

“You let her go?” Erica says, eyes flashing amber. “Where is she? If she doesn’t have Derek she knows who does and you just let her _walk away?_ ”

“I didn’t realize,” Allison says, stricken, “I - she said she’d call me, she wants to meet up and talk. I gave her my number.”

Erica growls and turns away.  Isaac and Boyd are watching her, eyes wary and alert.  None of them trust her, and Allison can’t blame them.  Lydia, drawn by the commotion, comes forward to stand by Allison.

“You didn’t know,” Scott says, “You can’t smell it.”

“I - what can you smell?  Can you smell Stiles? We shook hands, here.” Allison holds out her hand and Scott takes it, sniffs at her fingers, shakes his head.

“Just Derek,” he says, “And blood.”

Allison swallows hard.

“When do you think she’ll call you?” Boyd asks, arms crossed.

“I don’t know,” Allison says, sickened. 

Lydia breaks the following silence by tossing her hair and saying, “Well, do you at least have a name?  If she’s a hunter and she knew your aunt maybe your dad knows her too.  Maybe we can track her that way.”

“Right!” Isaac says, eyes lighting up, and Boyd says, “You did get a name, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Allison says, “Yes, of course.  Her name is Sandra.  Sandra MacAllister.”

“Good,” Scott says, nodding.  “Okay, we can work with this.  If she calls Allison we’ll arrange a meeting, and until then -”

“Until then we do what we can with a name.” Lydia says. 

Boyd and Isaac grab the food, Allison dials her dad and everyone else returns to their laptops to start seeing what they can dig up.  They’re all still exhausted and strung-out, but now they have a _lead._


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning Stiles is quiet and subdued.  She keeps casting sidelong looks at Derek, as though checking to make sure Derek won’t fall apart.  It’s a reasonable concern, Derek thinks.  After yesterday her control is pretty much shot.  She’s twitchy and on edge and, she can admit it to herself if not to Stiles: she is now legitimately afraid of Sandra. This is not the adolescent hunter she and Laura had taken such delight in taunting, this is what happens when an insecure hunter grows up trying to prove herself and comes ever-so-slightly unhinged in the process.

In something of a reversal, Derek spends the morning pacing while Stiles sits against the wall and watches her with anxious eyes.  Derek, who is trying without much success not to wonder what today’s theme will be, snaps at Stiles twice when she catches her staring.  Each time, instead of snapping back, Stiles mutters an apology and looks away, only to end up staring again a few minutes later, gaze drawn like a magnet.  Derek gives up after the second time and tries to focus on counting paces in lieu of the lurid mental images her mind is calling up of the room down the hall and what might be waiting for her this time.

When she hears them coming, Derek shifts on sheer reflex.  She needs some decent food, a solid night’s sleep (preferably on a mattress), and she needs for bastard son-of-a-bitch hunters to quit using her as a punching bag, but she does have her pride, so she makes an effort.

Derek is busy trying to brace herself for today’s circle of hell and misses all the warning signs.  When the door opens, Stiles is standing next to her, her expression set and her stance aggressive.  As the first Taser hits Derek in the shoulder Stiles is already mouthing off.

“Do you people never take a break?” she’s saying, blocking their way to Derek, “You’re killing her!  If you wanted her dead she’d be dead already, but even a werewolf can’t survive this forever.”

Derek tries to push herself upright, to tell Stiles to shut up, but the current has locked her jaws and her limbs are jerking in uncontrollable spasms. 

Larry is holding the Taser. He tosses a quick glance over his shoulder to where Sandra is standing in the doorway. Sandra taps her own Taser against her bright-red lips and says, “What makes you think we’re interested in keeping her alive forever?”

“You must want her alive for _something,_ ” Stiles argues, sidestepping to stay between the hunters and Derek. 

Sandra considers her for a moment, then tilts her head sideways at Edward, who moves forward into the cell.  Stiles backs up a step, nearly tripping over Derek and windmilling her arms for balance. 

“We do want her alive.  For now anyway,” Sandra says, musing, as Edward grabs Stiles by the arm. “Perhaps we should give her a break for today.”

The stab of fear that hits Derek then is galvanizing.   It cuts through the haze of exhaustion and hunger like a bucket of ice water, but Derek is still weak and even the burst of adrenalin only gets her to her hands and knees.  Stu casually shoots her with another Taser and Derek collapses back onto the concrete, twitching.

Stiles takes a swing at Edward on reflex, which goes about as well as might be expected given that Stiles is a slight, sixteen-year-old girl and Edward is 6’5 and two hundred pounds of muscle. 

Stiles struggles as Edward tows her towards the door. “Hey, what - what are you - let me go!  This is really not necessary – ”

“I had some questions for you anyway.” Sandra says from the door, eyes gleaming.

Derek fights the remnants of electricity desperately. She can smell the moment it clicks for Stiles, the moment she starts to panic.

“Derek!” Stiles cries, and the sheer terror in her voice hits Derek like a physical blow. Stiles is fighting with every bit of strength she has, but it’s clearly not going to be enough. “ _Derek!_ ”

“ _No,_ ” Derek gasps, pushing off the floor, “No, leave her - _Stiles!”_

Derek forces herself to her feet and lunges for Stiles.  She’s human, she’s fragile, they’ll _kill her_.  No human could survive what they’ve been putting Derek through on a daily basis.

Derek slams into the door just as it locks behind Stiles, Sandra, and Sandra’s riffraff. She pounds on the metal and gets nothing but bruises for her efforts.

“Sandra!” Derek yells, ear pressed against the metal door, visions of Stiles hanging from the chains in the bloody room down the hall flashing behind her eyes. “Sandra, leave her alone!”

All she gets in response is Sandra’s mocking laugh.   

Yesterday Derek had thought fire was the worst.  Now she knows better.  This, being left behind to wonder what they’re doing to Stiles and if she’ll come back alive, or at all...this is worse than anything. 

***

 

Sandra and her goons take Stiles to a small room, not far from the cell she and Derek have been staying in.  There’s a file cabinet in one corner, one table, one chair, a counter with a coffee pot plugged into the wall. Stiles takes a deep breath and braces herself. 

They leave her standing in the middle of the room, flanked by the ginormous flunky (Edward?) and the smaller rat-like one Derek said was called Stu.  Stiles does her best to ignore both of them.  Sandra and Dr. Mengele (Larry, Stiles reminds herself) are standing a little ways away, by the table in the middle of the room.  The table is bare apart from a couple of cell phones.  On a closer look, Stiles thinks one might be Derek’s - the other is _definitely_ hers.

“So Derek is making human friends - how long has that been going on?” Sandra asks, glancing over at Stiles from her spot by the table.

“Friends?” Stiles says, aiming for nonchalant.  “We’re really not that friendly.  More like acquaintances.  Frenemies?  Something like that.”

“You’re awfully concerned with her well-being for a ‘frenemy’,” Sandra says.

“Yeah, right,” Stiles says, “because basic human decency is exactly the same thing as being best friends forever.”

“Hmmm,” Sandra says, her tone skeptical, and turns to back to the table. “I was a bit quick on the draw with that Taser, and poor Derek’s cell phone got fried, but you know what?  Yours is still working.”   Sandra holds up Stiles’ phone to demonstrate.  “Look, you’ve got missed calls.”

“Peachy,” Stiles says, fingers twitching.  She can guess where this is going.

“We’re jamming the signal,” Sandra says, catching Stiles’ expression, and Stiles feels her heart sink. “Problem is, we’re having a bit of trouble getting access, you know?  Electronics these days, everything’s got a password.”

“Fancy that,” Stiles says flatly. 

Sandra sets the phone down and looks over Stiles’ shoulder at Edward, who moves forward into Stiles’ field of vision and cracks his knuckles pointedly.  Stiles tries very hard not to find it intimidating. 

“We would greatly appreciate your assistance,” Larry says, from his place at Sandra’s side, voice soft and ten times more terrifying than shouting would have been, “Just give us the password and no one has to get hurt.”

“You mean anyone apart from _everyone in my phonebook_ when you hunt them down on suspicion of being werewolves?”

Edward’s backhand knocks her to the floor.  Stiles was expecting it, but that doesn’t really make it better. 

Edward pulls her back upright, fingers digging into her arms and she shakes him off, swaying on her feet. 

“Password,” Sandra says, tapping her phone on the desk.

“I can’t remember,” Stiles says, and accompanies it with her most insolent stare.

Sandra gestures and Edward drives one meaty fist into her stomach.  Stiles doubles over and struggles to draw breath. 

“Four little numbers, girly, don’t make this harder than it has to be.” Edward says, wheedling.

“No,” Stiles says, because self-preservation has never really been her strong suit. 

This time they don’t stop hitting her until Stiles is curled on the floor, arms wrapped around her head, tears streaming unbidden down her cheeks.

Edward hauls her up and holds her upright by the back of her t-shirt.  Stiles hugs herself miserably, hoping she looks as beaten as she feels.

“Password,” Sandra says, inexorable, and Stiles sighs in defeat.

“Alright,” she says, “Alright, I’ll unlock it.”

“Good,” Sandra says, pleased, “What’s the number?”

Stiles shakes her head, mute, and stares at the floor. “I-” she says, “I-” and lets herself burst into noisy sobs, sniffling and scrubbing at her face. It’s unexpectedly easy to do - she’s only about sixty percent faking it.  

They back off while she stands in the middle of the floor and cries; Stiles hopes they’re enjoying the show - hopes they’re buying it.  When she winds down into hiccups, Sandra puts an arm around her shoulders, all false sympathy and says, “You want to just type the numbers in for me?  Then you won’t have to say them out loud?”

Stiles gives her a wretched nod, not daring to meet her eyes and holds her breath as Sandra hands her the phone with a patronizing pat on the head. 

“Good girl,” Sandra says, “It’s not you we want, after all.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, then, before any of them can stop her, she throws the phone to the ground and grinds it under her heel as hard as she can.  She’s not sure how many pieces it’s in when they pull her away, shouting, but she’s pretty sure it’s never going to work again.  Sad - she’d liked that phone.  It’s the second one she’s destroyed this year and her dad is going to _kill_ her - assuming she ever sees him again which is looking more and more unlikely and - 

Edward sits her down in the chair and Sandra slaps her hard across the face, lips tight with fury.  Her nails leave bright lines of pain across Stiles’ cheek.  Stiles shoves away the thoughts of her dad and laughs in Sandra’s face.  

Sandra collects herself with a visible effort and stands in front of Stiles, fists clenched at her sides.  “Fine,” she says, “Have it your way.  My way was the nice way, all we needed was the numbers, we could have done our own investigations.”

Stiles snorts inelegantly to demonstrate what she thinks of _that._

“Now,” Sandra continues, “Now we’re going to want names.  And not just the werewolves, we’re going to want the sympathizers too.  So.  Start singing, little bird.” 

Sandra waits for a moment, then, when Stiles doesn’t respond, she motions to Stu, who grabs Stiles’ arm and holds it steady.  Stiles barely has time to process what Sandra is doing before she  reaches down and snaps one of Stiles’ fingers, right index, right at the joint in the middle. 

Stiles screams and thrashes, but Edward has hold of her shoulders and is keeping her firmly in place, and Stu’s grip on her arm is like a vise.

“Names,” Sandra repeats, insistent, and Stiles shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak.

“Plenty of fingers left to go,” Sandra says with a shrug, and breaks Stiles’ middle finger as well.

Stiles looks down at her hand, fingers bent at crazy-bad-wrong angles, leans forward and throws up all over the floor. 

“Who’s in the pack besides Derek?” Sandra says, when Stiles has finished retching, “She can’t be going it alone.”

Stiles clenches her teeth, thinks of Scott, and says nothing.  This is nothing compared to what they’ve been doing to Derek, she can totally handle this.  Stiles passes out when the third finger snaps. 

She sputters awake when they drench her with a bucket of ice-water.  Sandra gives her a lecture on the perils of being a species traitor, which Stiles does her best to tune out, and then they pull off her shoes and socks (punishment for stomping her phone?  Stiles doesn’t know and she doesn’t want to think about it - she’s always had a better imagination than was good for her). 

Stiles curls her toes against the cold concrete floor; it’s amazing how much more vulnerable she feels without her sneakers.  She tries not to let it show as they walk her back to the cell.  They take a detour to stop by the room they must be taking Derek to every day and Stiles has to spend the rest of her energy on not passing out again as they drag her barefoot over a stone floor that’s tacky with blood.  They give her a guided tour of the room and its contents - there’s an impressive array of knives laid out on one of the tables, and something that looks a lot like thumb screws.  Just looking at them has Stiles swallowing back bile.  Whatever they had planned for Derek today - Stiles knows Derek can heal pretty much anything, but she thinks maybe the last few hours were worth it, if it means Derek doesn’t see the inside of this room again for a while longer.


	6. Chapter 6

Punching through the walls didn’t work the first time Derek tried it but she tries again anyway.  It’s just as ineffective and twice as painful as when she’d been at (more or less) full strength.  Derek licks the blood off her knuckles, waits for the bones to heal and resigns herself to standing vigil.  If this is what it’s been like for Stiles, Derek almost doesn’t blame her for snapping. 

When the hunters shove Stiles back through the door she falls to her knees.  Derek ignores the hunters and flings herself down next to Stiles, reaching out.  Stiles clutches at Derek, fingers of one hand digging too-tightly into Derek’s arm, her eyes wide and glazed. 

“Derek...” Stiles mumbles, and Derek tightens her grip on Stiles in response.

“Yeah, I’m here.”  Derek reminds herself to keep her cool and takes a second to look Stiles over.

Stiles looks awful.  She’s got one hand cradled close against her chest, she’s soaking wet, barefoot, whiter than flour, and her heart’s beating triple-time.  Derek can smell blood, can smell Stiles’ fear and panic, and the wash of relief now that they’re alone.  Derek can smell the hunters too; Stiles is covered in their scent, coated with it. 

There are new bruises across Stiles’ face, scratches on one cheek presumably courtesy of Sandra’s carefully manicured nails.  Derek can feel her shivering and shocky, her pulse going too fast and _smelling like hunters._

Derek is growling before she can stop herself, shoving her face into the crook of Stiles' neck, breathing deeply, searching for _Stiles_ in all that chaos. 

Stiles’ heart skips a beat and Derek pulls herself back under control.  She steadies Stiles with one hand and reaches the other up to brush a fresh bruise darkening Stiles’ cheek.  Stiles flinches but meets Derek’s eyes without hesitation, her gaze clearing as she looks up at Derek.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks. 

“What?” Stiles shakes her head, her tone incredulous.  She seems to be pulling herself together. “No, of course I’m not okay.  Do I look _okay_ to you?  Oh my god, Derek, I’m – ”

Derek remembers Edward, twirling his bat, saying, “Your friend’s awfully talkative.  You should tell her to keep that pretty mouth shut before I find another use for it.”

Derek had waited another fifteen minutes, waited for him to stop in front of her.  She’d been fading fast at that point, but her feet were unbound, her right leg still intact and she’d taken the opportunity to kick him in the balls, hoping he wouldn’t connect it with his comments, that she could keep him from following through.  It occurred to Derek early on during the interminable wait for Stiles’ return that you can still do a lot of damage even without working plumbing.

“No,” Derek says, shaking Stiles a little, sick with fear. There are bruises on Stiles’ arms the exact shape of Edward’s fingers, and all Derek’s senses are getting from Stiles is blood and the scent of Sandra and her hunters.  “Are. You. _Okay?_ They - did they....”

“…what?  Oh. Oh!” Stiles’ eyes go wide in sudden comprehension, and under the dirt and bruises what faint color is left drains from her face.

“No. No, oh my god, no, I’m - I’m fine, they didn’t...no.  Um.  Wait, oh my god _,_ are you…?  All this time -” Stiles grabs at Derek’s t-shirt with surprising strength.  She looks terrified. “Are _you_? Um.  Okay? Are you okay?” 

Derek feels something coiled tight in her chest loosen.  “I’m fine.  They look at me and see wolf, not human, remember?” 

Stiles looks doubtful, but Derek’s rationale seems to reassure her and she relaxes a bit, slumping forward and dropping her head down to rest on Derek’s shoulder.

“Okay.  Okay, good. That’s, um, that’s good, I guess and, _shit,_ I’m really tired.”  Stiles’ voice cracks. Derek pretends not to notice and strokes Stiles’ dripping hair until she quiets. 

“Okay?” Derek says. 

Stiles nods against Derek’s shoulder, then she shivers, shifts, and bites back a yelp of pain.

Derek narrows her eyes and pushes Stiles away to get a better look at her, at the way she’s holding her right hand close against her body. When she sees Stiles’ fingers everything goes red for a moment.

“What the _fuck,_ ” Derek says, reining herself in when she hears Stiles’ heartbeat amp up again. She reaches for Stiles’ arm, keeping her movements slow, trying to ignore the way Stiles flinches away from her.

“Shit, shit, shit _,_ ” Derek mutters.  She wraps her fingers around Stiles’ forearm, reaching out for Stiles’ pain and _yanking._ Stiles sighs in relief and sags against Derek.  Derek shrugs out of Stiles’ jacket and drapes it over Stiles’ shoulders.  Stiles clutches at the material with her good hand and allows Derek to help her to her feet, stumbling, most of her weight on Derek.  Derek guides Stiles over to their usual corner, setting her down so she’s leaning against the wall.

“Stiles, I’m going to set your fingers, okay?”

Derek waits for Stiles’ bleary nod, then looks around for something to use for bindings.  She doesn’t have anything to use for a splint.

The material of Stiles’ jacket is all wrong, it’ll have to be a t-shirt.  Whatever Stiles says, Derek doesn’t want to give Sandra’s minions more reasons to look at Stiles, so she rips a few strips off what’s left of the back of her own shirt, and settles back in front of Stiles.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, her tone distant. “I’m werewolf-high.  High on werewolf mojo.  Dude, this is kind of awesome.”

“It’s about to be less awesome,” Derek says grimly. “I need to pull your fingers back in place, you hear me?”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, and then, rousing a little, “Wait, what?  No no no, I think we should just leave them alone.  They’re resting.”

“Stiles _,_ ” Derek says, putting a bit of a growl into it, “Don’t be difficult.  We have to.  I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Stiles says, on the edge of hysterical, “Do you really?  No, no, don’t, Derek, _please...”_

Stiles’ breathing is too quick; she’s starting to hyperventilate.  Derek reaches out to take Stiles’ face in both hands, holding her still.  “Stiles,” she says, “Stiles, look at me _._ ”

Stiles looks up and it’s clear she’s not registering anything at the moment.

“Stiles,” Derek says again, “Breathe, you’re going to be okay. Just - breathe, come on.” 

Stiles struggles to comply and Derek holds on until Stiles has regained some semblance of control.

“Stiles, I have to.” Derek says, her voice as gentle as she can make it. “It’ll just get worse if we leave it.  If it heals wrong you’ll be crippled for life.”

Stiles barks a bitter laugh, still bordering on hysteria.  “Does it matter?” Stiles asks. “We’re going to die here.  They’ll kill us, they -”

Derek cuts her off with a little shake, forcing Stiles’ panicked gaze back to hers.  “We’re not going to die,” Derek says, with as much force as she can muster. “And I have to fix your fingers.  I’ll be quick, I promise.  Just hold on, okay?  I’ll pull the pain as soon as I’m done.”

Stiles stares at her for a long second, eyes wide and frightened in the low light of the cell.  Then she sets her teeth, presses her lips together and squeezes her eyes shut.

“Okay,” Stiles whispers, “Okay, do it.”

Derek works as fast as she can.  Stiles jerks and whimpers as Derek pulls each finger straight, but she doesn’t scream.  Derek hopes it’s because she managed to numb Stiles’ hand before she started.  When Derek is done she wraps each of Stiles’ broken fingers in thin strips of cloth, then ties them all together, anchored to Stiles’ one unbroken finger. It’s the best she can do with what she’s got.  It’s nowhere close to good enough.

“Done,” Derek says, and Stiles, eyes still squeezed shut, jerks her head to show she’s heard.  Derek is sweating like she’s just run five miles uphill and her heartbeat is loud in her own ears. She wraps both hands around Stiles’ wrist and pulls at the ugly, seething, _river_ of pain that lies just under Stiles’ skin.  It leaves Derek dizzy and lightheaded, but it’s worth it.

Stiles slumps against the wall, boneless.  After a minute or so her breathing evens out.  She swallows, knuckles at her eyes and says thickly, “Thanks D, you’re a champ.” Stiles’ attempt at a smile is painful.

Derek growls in response, sinks down against the wall next to Stiles and pulls Stiles close against her side.

“You’ll get all wet,” Stiles says through chattering teeth, but it’s a half-hearted protest at best; she’s already leaning into Derek.  Derek doesn’t bother responding, just wraps one arm around Stiles’ shoulders and pulls her closer.  Stiles relaxes a fraction, drawing her knees up and huddling into Derek’s side, shivering.

“Is it colder in here?  It feels colder.  Why am I so cold?”

“You’re in shock,” Derek tells her. “And you’re soaking wet.”

“Oh.  Right.”

“It’ll go away,” Derek says, hoping it’s true. “You’ll feel better in a bit.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, then adds in aggrieved tones, “They took my _shoes._   Those _bastards_.”

Derek looks down at Stiles’ feet, blue-white against the concrete.  Derek grimaces, then reaches down to unlace her own shoes.  Her sneakers aren’t going to fit Stiles, but she can at least give Stiles her socks.  It’s not much, and her socks are filthy, but it’s a layer of protection against the chill of the floor.

Derek helps Stiles pull the socks over her feet, then stuffs her own feet back into her sneakers and settles back against the wall.

Derek wraps her arm around Stiles’ shoulders once more and holds on, eyeing the door warily.  They’re not hiding, Derek tells herself, they’re _not._  She just likes having something solid at her back.  And being able to keep an eye on the door.  And if she’s planning to push Stiles into that corner next time the door opens and wolf the fuck out, it’s nobody’s business but hers.

“Stiles,” Derek says, when she thinks Stiles has calmed sufficiently, “Stiles, why did they break your fingers?”

Stiles tells her about the phones, and the names, and Derek curses inwardly.  Stiles is human _,_ dammit, she’s not supposed to be involved in this.

“You did good,” Derek tells her.

“This time,” Stiles says, voice shaky.  “But I’m not…I’m not…” she trails off and _burrows,_ shaking, shaking.

“You’re okay,” Derek says, which is a blatant lie, and “you’ll be okay,” which is...hopefully not a blatant lie.  She rests her cheek on Stiles’ dark head and holds her closer, struggling to calm her own racing pulse.

“Is there,” Stiles’ voice is a harsh rasp and she swallows, trying to clear her throat, “is there any water left?”

Derek reaches for their last water bottle and passes it to Stiles; there’s about a quarter of it still sloshing around.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, trying to make the water last, mostly failing. “It’s unbelievable how thirsty I am.  I could drink, like, an entire pool of water right now.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, “That happens when you’ve been tortured.  It’s normal.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles croaks. “ _Normal?_ This is _normal?_ ” And then, almost inaudible, as the implication sinks in - “I’m sorry.  God, Derek, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Derek says, “Not your fault.”  

Stiles is still shaking, her good hand clutching at the fabric of her jeans, but her breathing is calming, her heart rate slowing. Derek feels her own pulse slow in response.  Sitting with Stiles like this, it feels good, grounding.  There’s an almost visceral sense of relief to have physical contact with another person that doesn’t _hurt._  

“Did you, did you see?” Stiles is looking down, away from Derek.  “They’ve got tools _,_ I mean, I guess of course you saw, you know better than I do, just, Jesus, they’ve got a goddamn _torture-chamber_ , fucking sadistic bastards, they said –” Stiles clamps her mouth shut, and Derek hears her heartbeat accelerating again.

“What did they say?” Derek asks, running her fingers through Stiles’ hair, the motion soothing, repetitive.  She doesn’t really want to know, can guess well enough, but it helps sometimes, just knowing that someone else knows.  Also, Stiles not talking is fucking unnatural _._  

“They said…they said they’d kill everyone.” Stiles’ voice is low and haunted, “Wolves, humans, anyone remotely connected, to ‘stamp out the beast’, they said, and all the wolf-lovers.  Everyone _,_ Derek, they don’t care.  I don’t know how to protect anyone, and, god, I’m sorry, this is terrible, you know this already, I shouldn’t – you have your own problems without adding me freaking out.”

“Stiles!” Derek says sharply, and Stiles looks up, heart still going too fast, breathing too quick, radiating pain and fear and – “The others will be fine.  They can take care of themselves.”

“What, like you and I can take care of ourselves?”

Derek hesitates.  “We weren’t prepared.  They’ll know now to be on alert. They’re going to be fine and we’re going to get ourselves out of this mess.”

“If you say so,” Stiles says, but she sounds a little more calm.

“And,” Derek pauses, trying to find the right words. “It’s ….okay to be scared.  It’s not like you can ever really be prepared for stuff like this.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and then, softer, “How do you do it?”

“What?”

“You’re so – how are you so _calm_?  I can’t – we’ve been here for five days now and I’ve been putting a _lot_ of effort into not freaking the hell out and they….Today, with them.  That was like child’s play compared to what they’ve been doing to you since we got here – ”

“Hey!” Derek interrupts, furious all over again, “Three broken fingers and a beating is not ‘child’s play’ Stiles.”

“No, but, comparatively,” Stiles says, “Up to now it’s been you and you’re still –” Stiles makes an all-encompassing gesture with her good hand.  “You’re not freaking out.  If you weren’t here I would be _catatonic_ right now.”

“If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t be here at all.”

“Okay, debatable, but still not the point.  My point is, I’m barely keeping it together.  How are you not freaking out?”

The truth is twofold.  Firstly, nothing has ever been and nothing will ever be as bad as the day Kate killed Derek’s family. And secondly, Derek will fight like hell to stay alive, but at the end of the day it’s not like it’s a big loss if she doesn’t make it.

“Practice,” Derek says.  “Panicking gets you killed. You learn to keep your cool; it’s the only way to survive.”

“God, that’s depressing.”

Derek shrugs and runs her hand over Stiles’ hair. Derek is pretty sure she’d be dead by now if she were here on her own, if Stiles wasn’t here with her. Werewolf healing is all kinds of incredible, but at a certain point you have to want to heal for it to work.   Stiles’ white-knuckle grip on her jeans has relaxed. Her clothes are damp but drying, and she’s no longer shivering as violently as she had been.  Derek holds her, sharing body-heat.  She feels the too-thin bones of Stiles’ shoulder blades through the thin material of her windbreaker, the delicacy of the human form that is so much less resilient than Derek’s own.  Stiles is fragile and reckless and at some point she’s decided Derek was worth protecting.  Derek wishes she hadn’t; Stiles is going to get herself killed, and it will be Derek’s fault.  Derek doesn’t need more ghosts.    

Right now Stiles’ heart-rate is picking up again, the fingers of her good hand worrying at the fabric of her jeans.

“Stiles,” Derek says, feeling helpless.

Stiles looks up. “Sorry,” she says, “Sorry, just - the inside of my own head isn’t really a good place to be right now.”

Derek sighs.  “I know,” she says, “I know, but try to relax, all right?”

“Yeah, right,” Stiles snorts. “Relax. I know I should stay positive and all...I just think our odds of getting out of here right now are pretty slim.” Stiles catches Derek’s expression and grimaces. “I know, I know. ‘Never tell me the odds.’”

When Derek just looks at her Stiles heaves a dramatic sigh and shakes her head.  “It’s a quote.  From Star Wars?”

“Never saw it.”

“Not even the originals?”  Stiles is distracted from digging a hole through her jeans long enough to be visibly appalled. 

“Seemed boring,” Derek replies, deadpan, just to see what Stiles will do.

“Boring?” Stiles repeats, her tone incredulous.  “ _Boring?!_ You have got to be kidding me.  I’m surrounded by heathens.  We’re talking classic American culture here.  I’m pretty sure Star Wars is on the test for US citizenship.”

Derek shrugs and Stiles shakes her head in disbelief.

“You and Sc-my best friend; he hasn’t seen it either.  It’s a freakin’ travesty.  I can’t believe you two don’t get along better.”

“We have....different perspectives,” Derek says, and they both fall silent for a while, lost in their own thoughts.

“What the hell is her problem, anyway?” The momentary energy that came with outraged nerd sensibilities has dissipated; Stiles sounds exhausted.

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Stiles says, pulling away to lean against the adjacent wall, facing Derek and narrowing her eyes.  “Sandra Mac-crazy.  What’s she got against you?  And against me for that matter.”

“She’s got it in for you because you’re with me,” Derek hedges, answering the easy question first. “It’s not personal.”

“Oh, good,” Stiles says, tone caustic, “I’m glad it’s not personal.  Also, I figured that was it, but what’s her problem with _you_? I hope whatever you did to her to get her this worked up was frickin’ _amazing._ ”

Derek laughs, a harsh, painful sound.  “It was pretty good,” she says, “But I have to say, I think she’s overreacting just a bit.”

Derek doesn’t talk about her past. But Derek’s past just broke three of Stiles’ fingers; Stiles deserves to know why.

“After the fire we went to New York.  Me and Laura. We had some contacts there.  Two people...it’s too small, for a pack.  It’s dangerous.”

Stiles hums acknowledgment.

“So we were in New York, and we kept coming across these...really _absurdly_ bad traps.  We thought it must be some kind of trick, they were so obvious. Trip-wires covered in her scent, nets she didn’t know how to camouflage properly, rigged crossbows that squeaked when they fired because she hadn’t oiled the firing contraption - that sort of thing.  Only the most clueless of newly turned omegas would have fallen for these things, it was embarrassing _._ ”

“So what’d you do?”

Derek shrugs. “We sprang the traps.”

Stiles snorts. “Of course you did.”

“We sprang the traps, and, since there actually are kind of a lot of clueless omegas in New York, if we found one stuck in a trap we let them go.  I assume Sc- your friend told you about that omega Gerard caught?”

Stiles nods and Derek sighs.

“Yeah, well, Laura knew some people who ran a - a sort of a halfway house for unaffiliated wolves.  We’d send them along if they were interested.”

“Anyway, after a while we found out who it was setting the traps.”

“Sandra.” Stiles guesses, and Derek nods.

“Sandra MacAllister.  She was younger then, about your age, actually.  Little older.  She was pretty gung-ho, but her practical skills were -”

“Awful?”

“Awful,” Derek agrees, smiling a little, “Very dedicated, she just _sucked_ as a hunter.  But she really wanted to get in with the....the local hunter royalty I guess.  East Coast Argent-equivalents.  So she was trying to prove herself.”

“So naturally you decided to mess with her.”

“We didn’t _hurt_ her or anything.  Killing any of the New York hunters would have started a war.  But we destroyed her traps, released the few omegas she managed to trap, and Laura had this thing where she used to leave these _obnoxious_ little notes on index cards.  We hid and watched Sandra find them one time and she was furious _._ ”

“She was mostly harmless though - she was still pretty young and she was _really_ incompetent.  But this one time she got lucky.  There was this omega, a new wolf, she was young and confused and she got tangled in a snare one full moon. Laura and I only just got her down before Sandra showed up with reinforcements.”

Derek trails off, remembering. 

That omega had been so vulnerable.  She was newly turned and she’d lost her pack.  She was running scared and it had been a close call getting her out.  Too close.  If the Hale pack hadn’t had friends, Derek and Laura might have ended up much like her.  Smarter, obviously.  Better prepared, more experienced - but still.

Laura had been quiet and moody for _days_ after that.  And next time they found a trap they’d, well, they’d re-set it. 

“So wait, is that _it?_ ” Stiles asks, jolting Derek out of her reverie.

“Pretty much,” Derek says.  “Except one day when Laura was in a really bad mood we rigged one of Sandra’s traps.  When she came back to check it, she ended up getting caught instead.”

“Oh, _snap,_ ” Stiles says, sounding more alert.  “That’s gotta be embarrassing.”

“Yeah, it was.  And,” Derek clears her throat, “We might have left her there for...kind of a while.  She had to wait for some of her hunter buddies to get her down, and uh.  Laura left a note pinned to her jacket.”

“Whew,” Stiles says, “What did the note say?”

“‘I fail at being a murderous bitch.’” Derek says, wishing now that they hadn’t provided Sandra with such potent motivation to prove them wrong.

“ _Ouch,_ ” Stiles says, and then, “Wait, that’s it?  Nobody died, nobody got hurt, she just got schooled by a werewolf?  That’s _it?_ ”

“Well, she looked like an idiot in front of the entire hunting community,” Derek says with a shrug, “It basically shot her leadership prospects.”

“So, all this - _all this_ because you played some _pranks_ and foiled her various murderous plots?”

“Essentially.” Derek says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, brown eyes narrowed, “Because that’s a completely sane and proportional response.  God, what a psycho.”

“Pretty much,” Derek says, staring bleakly into space.  Story of her life, really.  “Well.  She also said something about Kate Argent being her mentor. I think she blames me for Kate’s death.”

“But you didn’t kill Kate.  I mean,” Stiles adds hastily, “Not that I’d blame you if you had.  But Peter killed Kate, not you.”

Derek shrugs.  “I don’t think it matters.”

 

A while later Derek lifts her head when she hears footsteps outside the door.  As soon as Derek moves, every muscle in Stiles’ body goes taut as a bowstring.

Derek gets to her feet and is standing between Stiles and the door when it opens. 

It’s just Stu, and it’s apparently feeding time at the zoo again.  “Enjoy, ladies,” he says, leering at them from the doorway, then tosses in a three pound bag of carrots and another bottle of water before slamming the door shut.  

Derek turns back to Stiles, who looks her up and down and frowns.

“What?”

“You,” Stiles says with grimace.

Derek looks down at herself, at the ruin of her t-shirt, and crosses her arms over her chest.

“There’s not much I can do about my clothes, Stiles.”

“Yeah?  Well, I can,” Stiles says,  pulling her jacket from around her shoulders and holding it out to Derek.

Derek doesn’t move.  “No.  It’s cold in here, you need it.”

“Look, not to put too fine a point on it, but you look like something out of prison porn right now, so just take the damn jacket, okay?”

Derek decides not to ask what Stiles knows about prison porn and glares. “I told you, they’re not interested in me.”

“Excellent, let’s keep it that way.”

“This isn’t practical Stiles.  Your clothes are wet, you’re hurt, it’s cold -”

“Guess you’ll have to do your human-radiator thing then, huh?” Stiles says, giving the jacket a pointed shake. “Don’t make me keep holding this, my arm’s getting tired.”

Derek uncrosses her arms and takes the jacket, zipping it closed over the rags of her shirt.  One thin layer of fabric is no defense against anything _,_ but it makes Derek feel better anyway.

When she looks up, she finds Stiles has shifted her attention and is eying the bag of carrots with trepidation.

“What now?” Derek says, “At least it’s not raw meat.”

“No,” Stiles says, “I just...” she raises her good hand to one bruised cheek and brings her teeth together with a gentle click. “I don’t know that I can manage _carrots_ right now.”

Derek looks from the carrots to Stiles in consternation.  It’s possible this wasn’t a deliberate choice, but Derek doubts it.  It’s a dick move, giving them something edible that Stiles is too beat up to eat properly.

Derek grabs the bag off the floor and comes back to sit by Stiles, thinking hard.

“Oh no.” Stiles says, watching her with narrowed eyes, “I don’t think so.  This isn’t _Julie of the Wolves_ Derek, you’re not chewing my food for me.”

Derek glares. “Why not?”

“Cuz it’s _gross,_ ” Stiles says, _“_ That’s why not!”

Derek sighs, lets her claws come out and says, “Okay, what if I cut them up really small.  Does that work?”

“I dunno, do werewolf claws come with a _puree_ setting?”

Derek rolls her eyes.  “Guess we’ll find out.”

Stiles looks doubtful, but she nods.  It’s not as disgusting as the raw meat, but it’s approximately nine times more awkward, and a hundred times more painful, watching Stiles trying to chew with what appear to be a couple of loose teeth.  She hasn’t lost any, but it still looks painful. 

“Am I turning orange?” Stiles asks, when she catches Derek watching her. “Will I be able to see in the dark now?”

“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek says, but she can’t help smiling, and she can’t for the life of her keep the blatant affection out of her voice.

Stiles returns the smile and it lights up her whole face.  Derek feels her breath catch and has to look away.

But even Derek’s best efforts at slicing and dicing are only marginally successful; Stiles only gets through a fraction of her share of the carrots before giving up. 

“I’m pretty sure carrots are like celery; takes more effort to eat them than you get back in calories.”

“Pretty sure you’re making that up,” Derek returns. 

Stiles sighs and forces down a few more bites, then looks up and says, “Seriously Derek, I really can’t eat any more.”

“You said you threw up earlier.”

“Yeah, well, there wasn’t much _to_ throw up.”

“Not helping,” Derek points out. 

Stiles makes a valiant effort to eat another bite while Derek has a silent debate with herself over whether or not to push the issue.  Stiles swallows hard, coughs, and looks so miserable Derek really doesn’t have the heart to insist.

“Alright, fine,” Derek says, resolving to at least make sure Stiles drinks most of the water. “You look like you’re ready to throw up again.  No point forcing yourself if you’re going to lose it.  We’ll save some for later, okay?” 

Stiles nods and Derek makes quick work of the un-sliced carrots, storing what’s left in the bag and trying not to think about how their latest joke of a meal has only succeeded in reminding her of how gut-wrenchingly hungry she is. 

By this time Stiles is looking noticeably worse.  Her face is pale and drawn under the bruising and her breath hitches when she breathes.  The pain must be coming back.

Derek scoots closer and reaches for Stiles’ injured arm.  Stiles watches her in silence as Derek starts to draw out the pain, but it’s the third time today and Derek isn’t doing so well herself.  She’s not used to doing this - it’s an emergency thing, and most of the people Derek knows heal before this kind of assistance is necessary.  She must be reaching her limits here, because she’s only taken a little of the pain before it starts to become overwhelming.  Derek’s vision is blurring and there’s a roaring in her ears, but she keeps pulling until Stiles shoves at her with her good hand, saying, “Stop. Stop, Derek, _stop!_ ”

Derek sits back, shaking her head and blinking.  When she looks up Stiles is watching her closely.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, not knowing what else to say.

“I didn’t realize it was doing that to you,” Stiles replies, stricken.

Derek shrugs.  “It’s fine,” she says.  “It only lasts a minute.”

“Uh huh.  Either you’re getting worse at lying or I’m getting better at spotting it.” 

“We should sleep,” Derek says, instead of responding.  She’s exhausted and Stiles is looking better, but still like she’s only about three breaths from keeling over.

Stiles nods and curls over onto her side.  Derek settles in next to her, draping herself along Stiles’ back, careful to avoid aggravating Stiles’ bruises. 

“Stiles,” she says, before Stiles can drift off, “Pull something like that again and I’ll kick your ass, got it?”

Stiles laughs a little, the sound shaky and thin and says, “What happened to ripping my throat out with your teeth?”

“Stiles _._ ”  Derek puts just a hint of a growl into her voice and Stiles laughs again.  “I’m serious.  This is between me and Sandra.  You _stay out_ of it.”

“All right, all right,” Stiles says, pressing closer to Derek, “I’ll try.  I mean, I think Sandra kind of hates me now, but I’ll try to stay out of her way.”

Derek snorts, but she doesn’t hear a lie, so she leaves it at that.  Derek keeps watch until Stiles drops into an uneasy sleep, then lets herself follow. 

 

***

 

Allison’s dad is more helpful once they have a name, but all he can get them on short notice is general information.  He knows of the MacAllisters, a minor hunting family from New York, but not much apart from that.  He’s never met Sandra - doesn’t even know what she looks like. 

“I can try to get her number, and I can make some calls, but it might just tip them off,” he warns them.  “This is not standard operating procedure. I think she’s probably acting on her own, or with a small group.  And I’m no expert on kidnappings, but if you want to find them alive it’s best not to spook the kidnappers.” He gives Allison a look, a combination of “be careful” and “I trust you” that makes Allison’s throat close up because he hasn’t looked at her like that since...before.

Between what Allison’s dad tells them, what Allison remembers, and what Lydia can dig up on the internet, they manage to get a photo off her facebook page, but her profile is locked down tight and after that they pretty much hit a wall. 

Allison wants to take the photo and everything they know to the Sheriff; they’re entirely out of their depth here and Allison doesn’t want the responsibility for more lives in her hands.  She doesn’t expect the pushback she gets from the others.

“We can’t do that,” Scott says, “That’s the one thing Stiles _wouldn’t_ want.  She doesn’t want her dad anywhere near this stuff.”

“Even to save her life?” Allison knows Stiles has been stubborn on this point, but this is different.  “He’s the Sheriff _._ He’s trained for stuff like this.  It is literally his job to deal with things like this!”

Allison looks around at the others.  Erica, Boyd, and Isaac are silent, uncertain.  They all want Stiles and Derek back, but they also have very good reasons not to want law enforcement to get involved. Allison turns to Lydia, who shakes her head.

“I agree with Scott,” Lydia says.  “Allison, your dad is used to all of this, and trusting you to take the lead on things, but the Sheriff will want to do it his way even if we tell him _everything_.  If we tell the Sheriff he’ll bring in the cops and they’ll want to do this by the book.  We have a much better chance if you meet with her, if we can get you to where they are.  If we want them back alive we have a better shot with a person on the inside - and the Sheriff is never going to go for sending a teenager in undercover.”

Allison slumps back on the couch, defeated. “Fine,” she says. “I - okay.  We think this is the best shot?  Everyone?”

“I just said it was,” Lydia sniffs with her usual arrogance, and Isaac, Erica, and Boyd all nod. 

“You can do this,” Scott says, squeezing Allison’s hand. “I know you can.”

It’s a decision, but it doesn’t get them any closer to tracking Sandra MacAllister down.

They’re still stumped, sitting around the living room and wracking their brains when Allison’s cell goes off around seven in the evening. It’s an unknown number and Allison waves at the others to shut up as she answers.

“Hello?” she says, “This is Allison.”

“Allison, hi! It’s Sandra, we met yesterday.”

“Yes,” Allison says, heart pounding, “I remember.  How are you?”

“Good!” Sandra says, “I’m in town all this week.  I know it’s summer, but if you’re not too busy with friends I was thinking we might grab some coffee.”

“Of course!” Allison says, faking enthusiasm for all she’s worth. “That would be great.”

“Alright then,” Sandra sounds pleased, “It’s a little late today, but how about tomorrow morning?  I’ll meet you at that café downtown, the one across from the mall?  Say 11:30? I remember being a teenager on summer vacation, I wouldn’t want to pull you out of bed too early.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m pretty flexible.  We can do earlier if you want.”

“That’s sweet of you to say,” Sandra says, “but let’s keep it at 11:30.”

“Sure,” Allison tells her, “I’ll see you then.”

Allison ends the call and looks up to find that the entire pack is watching her. 

“So, tomorrow?” Boyd says, breaking the silence, and Allison nods. 

“Well,” Erica says, arms crossed, “I’m so glad you’ve arranged to get _coffee_ with your aunt’s crazy friend.  I guess we just, what, cross our fingers and hope you won’t be chatting about how she _murdered_ Derek and Stiles over Starbucks?” 

Allison doesn’t have an answer for that.  Scott and Lydia are the only people in the room Allison hasn’t shot or stabbed at some point - on purpose anyway.  Allison shot Scott with a Taser once too, but that was totally an accident and anyway Scott forgave her for it.  Scott forgives her for things even when she doesn’t deserve it; Allison is simultaneously grateful and perpetually waiting for him to change his mind and start hating her guts.  Erica _already_ hates her guts, and Allison can’t even blame her.

“It’s all we have to go on,” Lydia snaps back at Erica, “We’re just going to have to deal - unless you have a better idea?”

Erica crosses her arms and glares, but she doesn’t say anything.  Allison takes a deep breath and looks to Scott, who looks back at her without even a hint of doubt in his eyes. 

“You’ll be fine.” Scott tells her, reaching out to twine his fingers with hers. His faith in her is terrifying.

“Don’t fuck it up,” Lydia says, “But we’ve got your back if anything goes wrong.”

Allison gives Lydia a weak smile, then squares her shoulders.  She is Allison Argent.  Werewolves killed her beloved Aunt Kate.  She holds Derek Hale responsible for the death of her mother and the disappearance of her grandfather, whom she had just been getting to know.  She is seventeen and she has lost the better part of her family to a bunch of supernatural mutts.  She knows her way around a small arsenal of lethal weapons, she’s a trained hunter in her own right and she is itching for revenge. 

Allison takes a deep breath and meets Scott’s eyes, putting her game face on.  Scott gives her an encouraging smile.  “You’re gonna be awesome,” he says, and Allison nods.

She’s got this.  She’d _better_ have this, because if she doesn’t, Stiles and Derek are probably dead.  


	7. Chapter 7

Derek is chagrined but not particularly surprised to find that her usual nightmare lineup has an updated section featuring Stiles.  The situation is not improved by the fact that every couple of hours Derek wakes up with imaginary screams reverberating in her head, only to realize she’s been pulled awake because Stiles is twitching in her sleep and calling Derek’s name, her voice frantic and pleading.  Derek can’t tell if Stiles is calling for help or trying to help Derek, and Derek can’t decide which would be worse.  Each time she wakes Derek pulls whatever pain she can, stroking Stiles’ hair and murmuring reassurances until Stiles drops into a more peaceful sleep.  It’s a long, restless night for both of them.

After Derek jerks awake for the sixth time she gives up on sleep and focuses on keeping an eye on Stiles.  Derek knows from experience how exhausting it is to be tortured.  If she can help keep Stiles comfortable and asleep - well, it’s not much but it’s better than nothing.

Derek has no intention of being caught off guard twice in a row, so she listens for the footsteps.  As soon as she hears them coming she peels herself away from Stiles and gets to her feet.  It’s still early, 7AM by Stiles watch, which survived its dousing.  It’s much, much earlier than they’ve ever come to the cell before.  Derek tries not to wonder what that means; whatever it is, it can’t be good.  Derek stretches, trying to prepare herself for whatever this is.  She’s had a whole day and a half to rest and heal, so she’s in decent shape, even half-starved and weakened from all the pain-pulling.  Stiles feels her move and snaps awake, flailing and hissing in pain. 

“Stiles,” Derek’s claws are already lengthening, her voice deepening with the change.  “Stay where you are.  You _promised_ me.”

Stiles winces, but pulls herself stubbornly to her feet, rubbing sleep out of her eyes with her good hand.  “I said I’d try,” she corrects, and flinches when Derek half-turns to snarl at her, but stands her ground. “I’m not doing anything!”

“Just...stay back,” Derek says, and whips around to face the door as it opens.

The hunters enter one at a time, moving like they’re expecting Derek to attack.  Derek isn’t about to try anything, not with all those weapons pointed at Stiles.  She’s out of options, if she ever really had any.  Larry grins at them.  “Giving up?  You gonna make us work for it or are you coming quietly?”

Derek raises her hands and says, “I’ll go quietly, just leave her alone.”

“Derek!” Stiles says, horrified, and tries to push forward, only to be blocked by Derek, who is basically the same size as Stiles, but is still approximately a hundred times stronger.

“This?” Derek hisses over her shoulder, “This is trying?”

“You didn’t say you were _giving up_ ,” Stiles hisses back.

“I’ll go quietly,” Derek repeats, raising her voice.    

Larry nods, smirking, and gestures to Derek. “Put the claws away, bitch.”

Derek stands down, keeping herself positioned between Stiles and the hunters until they pull her away.  Stiles, for a wonder, stays where she is.

“Good.”  Larry waits until Derek has allowed Edward to tie her hands with wolfsbane-rope, knots pulled vindictively tight, before he points a gun - not a Taser, a real gun - at Stiles and says, “Alright girly, you too.  Sandra wants you both.” 

Derek snarls and lunges, but Larry is too far away.  He’s laughing and his gun is still trained on Stiles. 

“Ah ah,” he laughs, “None of that.  The fragile little humans aren’t as good with bullets as you are, are they?”

Derek subsides and Stiles moves out of the corner, face pale and lips tight. Larry shoves her over to stand by Derek, and Stiles presses close, staring down at the ropes cutting into Derek’s wrists.  When Stiles looks up to meet Derek’s eyes, her expression is torn between fear and a sort of sickened, helpless rage.  It does funny things to Derek’s stomach, and she knocks her shoulder against Stiles in silent reassurance.  

They’re hustled out the door and down the long hallway.  They’re surrounded by hunters.  Derek can’t risk Stiles getting shot but she needs to makes something clear, so she fakes a stumble.  When Stiles reaches out to steady her, Derek leans against her to murmur in Stiles’ ear, “Shut up, and stay out of the way.  Got it?” before she’s pulled away again. 

Then they’re back at the room with the manacles and the table of tools.  Sandra is waiting - Derek does her best to ignore her.   Larry fastens the chains around Derek’s wrists and cranks the pulley, dragging Derek upwards until she has to stand on the balls of her feet or leave all her weight on her wrists.  Edward, still walking with a limp, attaches another set of chains around Derek’s ankles, tethering her to the floor.  Derek wraps her hands around the chains to take some of the pressure off her wrists, then shakes her hair out of her face and glares across the room at Stiles.   Stiles, standing between Stu and Edward in Derek’s socks and looking even younger than she actually is, stares back at her.  Stiles has that stubborn look that means she’s probably going to do something stupid, and Derek cranks the glare up a notch.  Stiles hesitates, then tilts her head in a minute nod; Derek lets out a careful breath of relief and turns her attention back to Sandra, who, _dammit,_ is watching her with calculating eyes.

“Hmmm,” Sandra says, “We should have done this earlier. You!  Girl.  Look at me.”

“It’s Stiles,” Stiles snaps, hugging herself.

“Stiles then, how much do you know about werewolves?”

“Not much.”

“You’ve seen their remarkable healing abilities though, yes?” 

Larry hands Sandra a curved hunting knife and she moves around behind Derek to address Stiles from over Derek’s shoulder.

“I’m aware of it,” Stiles says, eyes tracking the knife.

Derek forces herself not to turn her head; she’s not giving Sandra the satisfaction.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Sandra says from behind her, and stabs Derek in the back.

Derek bites down on a scream and Edward and Stu reach out to grab Stiles by the shoulders as she shouts in protest and tries to run to Derek.

“Really quite incredible,” Sandra continues, “I’m especially intrigued by how they can’t heal until the arrow, or knife in this case, is removed.”

“ _Stop,_ ” Stiles says, eyes wide and horrified. “Stop it! _Why are you doing this?_ ” She’s struggling to break free, which is basically the exact opposite of shutting up and staying out of the way and precisely what Derek has been trying to avoid.  The less Stiles cares about Derek, the safer she’ll be - but stoicism has never been Stiles’ strong suit.  Everything Sandra does is calculated to get a reaction from Stiles, and Stiles is playing right into her hands.

Derek glares across the room and foregoes subtlety in favor of snapping, “Stiles!  Shut up!”  She breaks off with a moan, squeezing her eyes shut and breathing hard through her teeth as Sandra gives the knife a vicious twist.

“I do it because it’s fun,” Sandra says to Stiles from over Derek’s shoulder, “And because she deserves it.”

“You’re a fucking psycho _,_ ” Stiles tells her, “You and your pathetic lackeys.  This ain’t my first rodeo, you know, and I have to say I’m not that impressed with the operation you’ve got going here.  Do you even have a plan, or are you just fumbling in the dark?  Do you have credentials or something?  You know, like a license?  I feel like there should be some standards here.  Are you even really a hunter or just some garden variety wacko?”

Derek grits her teeth as Sandra withdraws the knife.  Stiles keeps talking; it’s like once she’s started she can’t stop.

“No, seriously,” Stiles continues, “I’m really curious now.  Who the hell lets you people run around like this anyway?  What happened to quality control?  Don’t the Argents do any gatekeeping at all? Or, wait.  Do they even know you’re here?  Are you guys like...hunter outcasts?  Oh my god you totally are.  Gerard wouldn’t touch this bunch with a ten foot pole.  At least _he_ was a worthy adversary.”

Derek is pretty sure Stiles was just trying to buy time, stave off the inevitable, but Derek can feel Sandra vibrating with tension behind her and holds her breath. 

“Shut up,” Sandra says.  Her voice is soft, but the rage underlying the words makes Derek shiver, and Stiles’ teeth click shut as Edward gives her a shake.

“What do you think Derek?” Sandra asks after a short pause, her voice back under control and honey-sweet. “Your pet human has a lot to say,” Sandra stabs Derek again. “Perhaps we _should_ let her talk.  Shift our focus to her for a while?  We had _so_ much fun yesterday.”

“ _No_ ,” Derek says, too quickly, gasping around the pain of the knife, “Leave her out of it.” 

“What is she to you?” Sandra asks in her ear, far too knowingly.  “This human girl?”

Derek refuses to look around, avoids Stiles’ eyes and stares at the wall. 

“Got a thing for human girls?  Kate Argent didn’t burn it out of you?”

Derek flinches at the same time she hears Stiles, across the room, yelp, “ _What?!_ ”

Sandra withdraws the knife and turns to Stiles. Derek still can’t look at either of them, shame and grief and weary anger battling for dominance.

“Didn’t you know how Derek Hale’s family died?” Sandra asks, all mock surprise.  “Derek here had a fling with Kate Argent – talk about sleeping with the enemy.” Sandra shakes her head, her tone combined admiration and disgust.  “And, well, we all do stupid things for love, don’t we Derek?”

Sandra makes a kissy face at Derek, which Derek steadfastly ignores.  She can feel Stiles staring but can’t stand to see her face.

“Derek gave Kate all sorts of useful information and then – ”

“And then that fucking sociopath killed Derek’s entire family,” Stiles interrupts, furious, “She _manipulated_ her and _murdered_ an entire family, you sick freak, and – ” Stiles cuts herself off. “Derek.  Derek, listen to me! It’s not your fault!  You didn’t know, she was a lying, psychotic, _serial killer_ – ”

The sound of Larry’s hand cracking across Stiles’ face snaps Derek’s head around and she meets Stiles’ eyes for the first time.  Derek is afraid she’ll see revulsion, or worse, pity, but she doesn’t.  All she sees in Stiles is fury and…grief?

“Disgusting,” Sandra says, “I don’t think there’s anything that turns my stomach more than humans siding with the monsters.”

“Define ‘monster,’” Stiles spits back at her, too angry for caution.  Derek closes her eyes in despair and curses Stiles’ propensity for ill-advised bravado.  “Between the two of you, _Derek_ doesn’t have a torture chamber in her basement, and as far as I know she’s never killed anyone that didn’t _totally deserve it_ for trying to kill her first.”

Sandra grins and motions to Edward, who grabs Stiles by the wrist of her already injured hand, twisting until she sinks to her knees with a cry, body contorting to ease the pressure.

“Kate was a _real_ hunter,” Sandra says conversationally, “but she’s an exception these days.  You think the Argents are big shots, but they’re losing their touch.  Going soft.  And you, Derek.  Last of the Hale pack, hanging out with humans.  What is she to you?” Sandra asks, glancing from Derek to Stiles and back again.

“Nothing, she’s nobody, just a stupid human,” Derek says, yanking at her chains. It’s a lost cause and Derek knows it.  “She’s an interfering _child,_ she has nothing to do with anything!”

Stiles is looking up at her, hair tangled, brown eyes wide, the freckles across the bridge of her nose standing out clearly against her skin. Derek has to hope Stiles understands what she’s doing and, more importantly, not to fuck it up.  Derek yanks her gaze away from Stiles.  She knows she’s giving too much away but she can’t stop her eyes flaring red as she looks back to Sandra.

“We all make choices, don’t we, Derek?” Sandra reaches one hand into a pocket and pulls out a stoppered vial half-filled with a clear, viscous liquid.  She gives it a shake, unstops it, and walks over to hold it out to Stiles.  Derek can smell it from across the room and she flinches.  

“Wolfsbane extract.” Sandra says. “I can feed it to the wolf, or I can have Edward here break your wrist, your choice.” 

“Stiles,” Derek says, “Don’t – ” 

Stiles snatches the vial from Sandra’s hand and flings it across the room where it shatters against the far wall. 

“Stiles!” Derek shouts, caught between fury and terror. “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you!”

Stiles ignores her, still glaring at Sandra.  “Fuck off and die, bitch,” Stiles says, and Derek would be impressed at the steadiness of Stiles’ voice if she weren’t so terrified.

“I thought you might say that,” Sandra says, and nods at Edward, who breaks Stiles’ wrist with one quick motion. 

Stiles screams and the sound twists in Derek’s gut worse than any of their knives ever did. 

Edward drops Stiles’ wrist, leaving her huddled on the floor, gasping.  Sandra reaches down and tangles one hand in Stiles’ short hair, dragging her up and over to stand in front of Derek.  Stiles’ face is white and tear-streaked, her pupils blown wide, blood on her lips. 

“What is she to you?” Sandra asks again, and Derek only has time for Stiles, looks directly into her eyes as she retracts her fangs enough to say,

“She’s pack.  She’s pack and if you touch her again I swear to god I’ll tear your throat open and let you drown in your own blood.” There is no point dissembling now, not after the stunt Stiles just pulled, and if they’re going to die anyway, Stiles should know. 

Through the pain, Stiles looks stunned.

Sandra’s crazy eyes turn cold.  “Humans in the pack?  Tsk tsk.  Tell me again how that worked out last time, Derek.” She reaches for Stiles, running a finger down the side of her face.  Stiles flinches away from her, closing her eyes and shuddering as Sandra moves her hand down to circle Stiles’ throat, sharp red nails pricking her skin. Derek wrenches furiously at her chains.

“Listen up, ladies, here’s the lesson for the day.  Werewolves and humans?  Do not mix.  You,” Sandra says to Derek, “will get everyone you’ve so much as _looked_ at killed.  When we’re done with you, we’ll find your pack and kill them too, until all your vermin are eradicated.  With or without your cooperation.” 

Derek snaps at her helplessly, sickened at the thought of Kate’s protégé tearing apart the fragile beginnings of her new pack, but while Sandra may be crazy, she’s too smart to get within range of Derek’s fangs.  She draws back, laughing, and turns to address Stiles.

“And you, human girl, would do well to think carefully about which side you’re on.  You run with the wolves and you deserve everything you get.  Last chance now - help us find the rest of the pack and maybe we’ll forgive this little...lapse in judgment.  You’re one of us, after all.” 

Stiles opens her eyes, takes a breath, and spits a mouthful of blood in Sandra’s face. 

It pretty much goes downhill from there. 

 

 

 

 

 ***

 

They beat the hell out of Stiles.  Derek tears all the skin off her wrists fighting the chains.  When Stiles is lying bloodied and semi-conscious at Derek’s feet, they Taser Derek long enough to loop a coil of wolfsbane rope around her neck, unlock the manacles and step back as she collapses next to Stiles.  When Derek can move again they allow her to carry Stiles back to their cell.  They keep a careful distance, keep their guns on Stiles and Derek doesn’t bother trying to fight; she just lifts Stiles as gently as she can in her arms and holds her close.

“Sorry,” Stiles is saying.  She’s delirious, eyes half-closed, the fingers of her good hand twisting into Derek’s borrowed jacket. “Sorry, I’m sorry, don’t yell at me, I’m sorry.”

Stiles subsides into mutters when Derek, her voice fear-sharp, snaps, “Shut up, Stiles.” The hunters can still hear them.

Stiles hides her face against Derek and holds on; she’s lost Derek’s socks and her bare toes are curled protectively where her feet are dangling over Derek’s arm.  As soon as the cell door clangs shut behind them and the immediate threat is gone Stiles relaxes, just a little, and chokes on a sob. 

“Hurts,” she says into Derek’s neck, “hurts, hurts…”  She’s crying in earnest now, clinging to Derek like the frightened, traumatized, injured teenager she is.

“Shh, I know, sweetheart, I know.” Derek says, aching, “Don’t cry....shhh, Stiles, you have to stop crying, you’re already dehydrated.  Just hang on, okay?” Derek drops down into their corner, dizzy from the wolfsbane, and reaches up to rip the rope from around her neck and throw it across the cell.  She cradles Stiles against her and drops a shaky kiss on Stiles’ forehead.  Derek takes a deep, steadying breath, then slides one hand under Stiles’ hair, palm flat along the side of her neck, and takes the pain, all of it, as much as she can.  Penance for failing, yet again.  She can’t actually heal Stiles, not the cuts and broken bones, but she can do this much.

As soon as Stiles is coherent enough to realize what Derek is doing she protests, but Derek ignores her.  Derek doesn’t have time to argue the point with Stiles, no energy for anything but this.

Derek loses a bit of time.  She comes back to Stiles patting her face with her good hand, begging Derek to wake up.

“M’awake,” Derek slurs, trying to get her eyes to focus, Stiles’ pain still humming under her skin.

“Don’t _do_ that,” Stiles says, her voice shaky.  Her good hand is resting on Derek’s shoulder, gripping hard. “You’re hurting yourself, I told you not to do that!”

“Wouldn’t have to if you’d stayed out of the way like I told you to,” Derek says, looking Stiles over.  

Stiles’ face is still pale and drawn, tear tracks streaked through the blood and grime on her cheeks, but whatever pain is left seems manageable now.

“Well, I wasn’t going to let you _die,_ ” Stiles says, like this is a totally reasonable response.

Derek lets her head fall back, knocking the back of her skull gently against the wall in frustration and says, “Stiles, I can handle it. I can heal myself, but _you can’t_. You need to stay in one piece because they’re not going to give me a first aid kit to patch you back together.”

“You can handle wolfsbane?” Stiles says, narrowing her eyes. “Did you miss the part where you would have _died?_   You can’t just make me watch them kill you Derek.  And anyway, how long do you think they’re going to keep me alive when I’m not useful for keeping you in line?”

Derek looks away.  If Stiles had any sense of self-preservation at all she would have taken Sandra up on her offer.  “Longer if you don’t actively piss her off,” Derek says, prevaricating. “Did you have to spit in Sandra’s face like that?  What were you thinking?”

“I - I guess I wasn’t really thinking,” Stiles says, aiming for casual and missing.

“Lie,” Derek says, giving Stiles a weary glare.  “It’s not worth it, just for a ‘Fuck you.’ They could have killed you.”

Stiles avoids Derek’s eyes neatly by huddling against Derek and tucking her head under Derek’s chin. “Well they didn’t. Still alive and kicking, so, you know.  No worries.” The words are flippant, but her voice is raw, and her pulse is spiking at the memory. “Anyway, it’s not like I had a _choice._ She was going to kill you.”

“There’s always a choice,” Derek says.

“If that’s what you think you’ve got another think coming.” Stiles mutters into Derek’s collarbone.  Derek is working on a response, but then Stiles coughs, and keeps coughing.  She tries to say something, but can’t quite catch her breath. 

“Don’t talk; stop trying to talk!” Derek says, grabbing for what’s left of their water.  Derek shifts Stiles to the side, trying to prop her up as much as possible, one hand on Stiles’ back as she hunches over her ribs.  Stiles’ whole body is shaking as she tries to get the coughing under control. When Stiles finally stops coughing and can breathe again she looks up at Derek, eyes frightened. 

“Let me see.”

Stiles straightens up and allows Derek to lift the edge of her shirt to see the rising bruises covering most of Stiles’ ribs.  When Derek reaches out one hand to hover just above the worst of it, she can feel the heat coming off Stiles’ skin in waves.

“Don’t,” Stiles whispers, and Derek halts.

“I can’t tell how bad it is from a distance.” Derek waits for Stiles’ nod, then lays her hand feather-light against Stiles’ ribs.  She can’t feel any obvious breaks, but that doesn’t necessarily mean there aren’t any.  “That hurt?”

“Everything hurts.”

Derek winces.  “Alright, stupid question.  Breathe in, okay?”

Stiles starts to inhale and Derek feels Stiles’ ribcage expanding under her fingers for a fraction of a second before Stiles freezes and says, “I can’t.  I can’t take a deep breath, it hurts.”

Well, shit. 

Derek looks up and meets Stiles’ eyes, withdrawing her hand and sitting back on her heels.  Derek can take the pain away, to a degree, but it doesn’t mean there aren’t still injuries.  “If we’re lucky they’re just bruised,” Derek says.

“But?”

“But they’re probably at least fractured.”

“And if we’re not lucky they’re broken,” Stiles says, her voice thready and exhausted.  “Worst case scenario I puncture a lung and drown in my own blood.”

Derek swallows.  “Don’t talk,” she says, “Try not to cough, and don’t lie down.”

Stiles nods and settles in next to Derek.  Derek wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and tries to avoid touching anywhere painful.  At this point that’s most places, but from the way Stiles is leaning into her Derek guesses that the discomfort is currently being outweighed by the need for friendly human contact.

They’re quiet after that.  Stiles sits close to Derek and dozes, head tipped onto Derek’s shoulder, her breathing shallow and labored.  Silenced by necessity, Stiles is still restless.  She rests her good hand against Derek’s arm, anchoring.  Awake, she traces patterns into Derek’s skin, her fingers stilling whenever she drifts off.  Derek drains herself recklessly to keep Stiles’ pain at manageable levels.  Stiles never complains, but she doesn’t have to; Derek can tell by Stiles’ heart rate and her breathing, by the way Stiles clutches at Derek’s jacket, when the pain is coming back.  Derek learns to recognize the exact tipping point, when Stiles, instead of pushing Derek’s hand away when she tries to take the pain, will close her eyes in defeat and let Derek take the edge off.

Even that much is exhausting.  When the hunters come for her (for them) Derek will be too weak to fight them, too weak to protect Stiles.  Too little, too late; it’s the story of Derek’s life.  It doesn’t matter.  Stiles won’t survive another beating like that - she might not survive this one if she doesn’t get medical attention soon.   Derek has tried plotting escape, but every scenario ends in death - she’s outnumbered and outgunned and she has Stiles to look out for.  She could have saved her energy for a last-ditch attempt, but listening to Stiles’ ragged gasps whenever the pain starts coming back, it hasn’t seemed worth it.  

“Am I dying?” Stiles asks once, voice strangely detached.  She doesn’t sound afraid, just curious.  It’s been a few hours by Stiles’ still-working watch, and Stiles is half asleep, still leaning against Derek’s side.

“What, from a couple of bruises?” Derek says, “You’re tougher than that.” 

“Stilinskis _are_ pretty badass,” Stiles agrees, nestling closer, her eyes sliding shut.

Derek tightens her embrace and rests her cheek against the fever-heat of Stiles’ forehead.

“Don’t you die on me Stilinski,” she mutters, “Don’t do it, I swear to god I’ll kill you, don’t do it.”


	8. Chapter 8

It’s easy - unexpectedly easy - to sell Sandra on the burning-for-revenge bit.  Allison guesses that at a certain point you see what you want to see. 

They go out for coffee, claim a booth in the far back of the shop.  Sandra tells stories about Kate and it’s easy, so,so easy to remember Aunt Kate the way she had been, before everything.  Allison finds herself laughing at the pictures Sandra paints of her fun-loving, rebellious, _beloved_ aunt.

Allison brushes away a tear, half laughing, half crying, and that’s easy too, to let the pain of loss in with the warmth of second-hand memories.  Later, she’ll be disturbed by the ease with which she’s able to compartmentalize, but she can’t think about that now. 

“You must miss her,” Sandra says, eyes keen, searching. 

“Yeah,” Allison says.  “It’s just so hard.  And then my mom -” she breaks off and looks down and away, letting herself fiddle with the wolf necklace Kate had given her. She’d dug it out of her closet specifically for this meeting.  Allison has no idea if it’s a universal hunter symbol or just an Argent family token, but she’d figured it couldn’t hurt.  

“I know,” Sandra says, leaning forward, “I miss her too.  Kate, I mean.  She was like a sister to me.”

For a moment they’re silent, then Sandra says, “That’s a beautiful necklace - did Kate give it to you?  She had one just like it.”

Allison looks up, meets Sandra’s eyes. “Yes,” she says, “She did.  It’s very...special to me.  It reminds me of her and the work she did.”

Sandra holds her gaze. “So you...know about your aunt’s work?  Your family legacy?”

Allison nods, she has to step carefully here.  “They were my family.  I want to honor their memories and -”

“And?”

“And avenge their deaths.” Allison finishes strong.  She remembers her anger and fear and determination, her grief at her mother’s death, makes herself feel it, lets it show on her face.

“I see,” Sandra says, eyes intent.  “What if I could...help you with that?”

“How?” Allison makes her voice hard. “I tried to...do something on my own and I got nowhere.  My dad won’t help.  He said to leave it alone, that he didn’t want to lose me too.”

Sandra just looks at her for a moment and Allison forces herself not to hold her breath.

“Who killed your mother, Allison?”

“Derek Hale,” Allison spits, channeling rage.

“What about Kate?”

“Peter Hale killed her, but Derek watched him do it.  She killed him to become the alpha.  It all comes back to Derek - Aunt Kate, my mom, even my grandfather is missing now because of Derek.”

It’s a bit of a risk, adding in the bit about Gerard.  It depends on Sandra not knowing anything more than the bare outlines of everything that happened, but it makes for a stronger story and none of the first-hand witnesses are very chatty with hunters so Allison thinks it’s a pretty solid move.  It seems to be paying off, because Sandra leans forward and says, “What if I could give you Derek Hale.  What then?”

Allison looks around the coffee-shop, makes sure they’re out of earshot of the other customers and leans in as well.  “I’d kill her.  Like she killed my mom.  For my mom and for Aunt Kate and for Grandpa.  I’d put her down like the filthy rabid dog she is.”

Once upon a time Allison could have said those words and meant them, and that more than anything has her choking back nausea.  Allison can only hope it’s coming off as fanatical fervor. 

Allison holds Sandra’s gaze until the other woman sits back, folding her hands together on the tabletop.

“Alright,” Sandra says.  “I think I can help you.  If you’d like.”  

“Yes,” Allison says immediately, “Yes _please,_ I would like that very much.”

“Alright then,” Sandra says, “I think we’re done here.  Are you ready to go?  We could go back to my place, I think we have a lot to...discuss.”

“Sure, that sounds great,” Allison says, then hesitates. “Uhh - is it far to your place?  I just kind of have to run to the bathroom.”

“It’s a little ways,” Sandra says, “Go ahead, I’ll get the bill.”

Allison makes for the bathroom as quickly as she dares and locks herself in a stall.  She has three draft texts, addressed to the entire pack, ready to send. The first one says “Help!!!”; the second one says “she’s moving, come get me” and the third, added at the last minute as a far-outside contingency plan, says “Going with her, be discrete.”

Allison leaves the café with Sandra, climbs into Sandra’s sporty red car, and fastens her seatbelt as Sandra peels out of the parking lot. 

“So you said you could help me,” Allison says, once they’re on the road.  “Help me how?”

Sandra turns to her and grins, wide and bright and says, “I’ve got your revenge locked up in my basement.  Gift-wrapped and everything.”

“Oh my god,” Allison says, and lets her eyes go wide.  “Where did you _find_ her?  I’ve looked everywhere, and she always slips away.”

“Well, she’s fairly clever, for a mutt,” Sandra says, frowning, “But I had some help.  Hunters work best in teams you know; don’t forget that.  Sometimes you find hunters who want to go it alone, heroes and glory-hogs - but the careful hunter always catches her prey.”

“I’ll remember,” Allison promises. “So you trapped her?”

“We found her - hiding out in that old train depot, you know?”

“Of course,” Allison snorts, “she _would_ be squatting there.”

“We found her and a little human pet - disgusting, don’t you think?  I think the humans that befriend or - heaven forbid - _live_ with werewolves are almost worse than the mutts, don’t you?”

“Ugh,” Allison says, “I can’t _imagine_ making friends with one of those creatures.  What kind of idiot does that?”

“I know,” Sandra says, with another of her bright, crazy grins, “Some people are too stupid to live aren’t they?”

Allison does her best to hide her shiver of fear and revulsion, and nods. “Absolutely.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for, keeping the earth safe for humanity. We’re the knights of the modern age, you and I.”

“Someone has to do it,” Allison says, and Sandra gives her an approving smile.  “So how long have you had Derek?  And how did you find me?  What -”

“We’ve had her for a few days now,” Sandra interrupts, eyes sparkling. “You’ll get a chance to play today; she’s very entertaining with the right motivation.  Just remember, we can’t kill her right away - we need to look at the big picture, make sure we get every last one of them so there are no surprises later.  Kate’s mistake was not finishing the job.”

Allison swallows hard and tries to keep her feelings off her face; she’s going to have to tread carefully when they arrive so as not to give herself away.  She can only hope that Sandra’s earlier comment doesn’t mean Stiles is already dead.  And that she can keep up the charade until they arrive and the others show up to help. “So,” Allison says, switching subjects to safer territory, “tell me more about Aunt Kate.”

Sandra smiles again. “Oh, she was _amazing._ The best mentor a hunter could ask for.  It’s such a pity you didn’t get to know that side of her very well...”

With that, Sandra is off on a rambling, gushing monologue about the Amazing Kate Argent - the wolves she’d hunted, the hunters she’d bested, how she never lost a fight or failed to catch her quarry until that last hunt...Allison doesn’t have to do much more than make encouraging sounds in appropriate places for the rest of the drive, which is good because every tale of Kate’s exploits just makes her feel worse about everything.  Surely _some_ of the wolves Kate had killed were evil, murderous monsters, but there’s no way to know that they weren’t all like the Hale family, and she obviously can’t trust Sandra’s version of events.

When they reach Sandra’s house Allison gets out of the car and stretches.

“Excited?” Sandra asks.

“I don’t even know _what_ I am,” Allison says, “I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

“Well, now we have all the time in the world.”

“Alright,” Allison says, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s go.”

  
Sandra gives Allison a brief introduction to her hunters: Edward, whose hand dwarfs Allison’s when they shake; Stu, who giggles at her nervously; and Larry, who smiles at her in a congenial sort of way.  Allison can’t put her finger on anything solid, but where Edward and Stu seem normal enough something about Larry makes Allison’s skin crawl.   She wonders what the others would sense if they were here; if Erica would smell Derek’s blood on their hands; if Scott could pick up traces of Stiles.  They only chat for a minute though before Sandra is telling the others to wait there and leading Allison down a set of stairs to the basement level.  The others are just a few minutes behind.  Allison only needs to stall long enough for them to get here, long enough to keep Sandra or her hunters from killing Derek and Stiles before the rest of the rescue party shows up to take care of them.

“I don’t think she’ll give us any trouble, but better safe than sorry,” Sandra says as they reach the cell, her Taser at the ready, and Allison nods.

She’s been expecting this, so it’s not exactly a surprise when Sandra pushes open the cell door to reveal Derek and Stiles sitting against the wall, as far as it’s possible to get from the door.   Derek is awake; Stiles is either asleep or unconscious, curled against Derek’s side with one of Derek’s arms draped over her shoulders. 

Derek looks exhausted and grimy and strung out, but Stiles is a _mess._ That neither of them move to get up when the door opens tells Allison more than anything else what kind of shape they’re in. Allison stops short on the threshold and Derek raises her head to meet Allison’s eyes.

For a split second Derek looks surprised to see her, and there’s a flash of hope, but when she sees Sandra at Allison’s side the expression shifts to one of such pure hatred that Allison takes an involuntary step back.

“I should have known,” Derek says.

Allison wants to be hurt, but she should have expected this.  She hasn’t talked to Derek since she shot Erica and Boyd full of arrows and left them tied up in her basement with electrified wires.  Derek has no reason to trust her now.

“Oh, you’ve met,” Sandra says, pleased, and Derek transfers her glare to Sandra.

“Yeah, I saved her life a couple times,” Derek says, baring her teeth. “No big deal.” And then she breaks off as Stiles shifts with a small, pained whimper.

Derek grits her teeth and strokes Stiles’ hair out of her face with a gentleness Allison hadn’t realized Derek was capable of.  Stiles quiets and sinks back against Derek, her bruised face lined with pain even in sleep. When Derek looks up again her eyes are red with fury.

“Aw, aren’t they cute,” Sandra says at Allison’s side, and Allison tries to smile, like this entertaining, like she gets her kicks out of torturing people.  She hopes Sandy can’t see the sickened horror she’s feeling. 

“Adorable,” Allison manages.  “So what’s the plan?”

“They’ve been surprisingly stubborn,” Sandra tells her. “Usually there’s no point trying to get information on packmates from an alpha.  We hoped the girl would be a better resource, but she’s been less than cooperative so far. Humans are so much more delicate than wolves, so we’ve had to be somewhat restrained. Of course Derek won’t talk no matter what we do to her, but she seems very attached to the girl.  Larry thinks it might be interesting to see if threatening a human packmate might be more motivating, and I’m inclined to let him experiment.  I’m sure it’ll be _very_ entertaining, regardless of whether or not it works.”

Allison watches as Derek’s arm tightens convulsively around Stiles.  Allison looks over at Sandra, who is regarding Derek with amusement. 

“No,” Derek says, voice edged with desperation.  “Sandra, don’t do this. She’s just a kid!”

“Say ‘please.’”

Derek doesn’t even hesitate.  “Please, Sandra. _Please,_ leave her alone.”

Allison has to shake herself out of a twisted sense of deja vu, remembering Peter Hale forcing an apology from Kate in exchange for Allison’s life.

Sandra makes a show of considering the request, then tilts her head to one side and says, “Hmmm. No.”

“You were friends, once,” Derek says to Allison, switching tacks.  “Allison, she’ll die if you don’t help her.  She’s human!  What happened to the famous Argent code?  Kill me if you have to, but _help her._ ”

Allison is spared a response when Sandra laughs. “Oh it’s much, much too late for that, Derek.  You know we can’t let her go now.” 

The last spark of hope fades from Derek’s eyes, and when she speaks she looks directly at Allison.  “Then her blood is on your hands.”  Derek looks Allison up and down, then curls her lip and adds, with a kind of savage despair, “If you see her dad, tell him Stiles says she loves him and she’s sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be like that Derek,” Sandra says cheerfully, “She’s not dead yet.  I bet we’ve still got time for _hours_ of fun before she kicks it.”

Derek appears to be at the end of her strength, but at that her eyes flare red again and she snarls up at Sandra. “And you call us monsters,” Derek says, and Allison is so completely over this charade.The plan was for Allison to go in first and wait for backup, but plans are made to be changed.  Stiles needs medical attention _yesterday_ and while Derek doesn’t seem to be injured, it’s obvious that she’s not thinking straight right now.  Allison has just as much information on the pack as Derek does and Derek knows it.  Either Derek is a better actor than Allison ever expected, or she’s too weak and exhausted after nearly a week’s imprisonment to be capable of processing more than one thing at a time.  Allison is betting on the latter.

“Sandy,” Allison says, “Can I borrow your Taser?”

Out of the corner of her eye Allison sees Derek twist around, shielding Stiles with her body in what she must know is a largely hopeless gesture.

“Ohhh, enthusiasm!  That’s what I like to see,” Sandra laughs.  “Kate was right about you.  You’ll revive the Argent name yet.”

Allison just gives her a tight smile, takes the Taser Sandra hands her, and zaps Sandra with it.

The look of shock on Sandra’s face is poor comfort for this disaster, but it’s a start.  When Allison looks over at Derek and Stiles, Derek is staring back her, uncomprehending. 

“What,” Derek says, “What are you doing?”

Allison steps over to Sandra with a ziptie in hand, makes sure she’s unconscious, and ties her wrists together.  Then she moves over to crouch by Derek and Stiles, pulling her phone out as she goes.

“I’m helping,” Allison says.

“The others - Sandra’s hunters...”  Derek is clearly having trouble processing.

“The other hunters are upstairs, they shouldn’t come looking for a while.  The pack is right behind me,” Allison says as she dials. “Scott and the betas and my dad.  They’ll be here soon.  What’s wrong with Stiles?”

“Cracked ribs, possibly internal bleeding.  She’s been coughing - maybe pneumonia.  Broken wrist, three broken fingers. She’s starving and dehydrated,” Derek says, and looks away.  “She was trying to protect me.”

Allison feels sick all over again. “Oh my god,” Allison whispers, and then, as the call picks up, “Scott?  Scott, hurry, and call an ambulance, Stiles is hurt. It’s - it’s bad.  We’re in the basement, there’s three of them upstairs.  I’ll hold them off till you get here.”

Then Allison hangs up, gets a better grip on Sandra’s Taser and goes to shut the door, taking up a position in the blind spot in case the other hunters come looking for them.  

It’s only about fifteen minutes before the cavalry arrives, but it feels like hours.  Derek tries to disengage from Stiles so she can come help stand guard, but the motion sends Stiles into a bout of wracking, full-body coughs.  Allison and Derek exchange a terrified look, and then Derek shifts Stiles in her arms, holding her as she doubles over.  The coughing fit has jolted Stiles awake, and she’s holding on to Derek’s arm like a lifeline as she struggles to breathe.  When the coughing finally subsides Stiles curls into Derek, her eyes half-closed and her breathing a stuttering rattle.  Derek reaches one hand to cradle Stiles’ head, pulling thick, inky ropes of pain from Stiles’ skin until she settles again.

“Just,” Allison hears her own voice crack, “Just stay there, don’t move.  I got this.” 

Derek nods, exhaustion lining her face. 

“What’s going on?” Stiles whispers. “Is that Allison?”

“We’re getting out of here,” Derek says, “Don’t talk, okay?  Allison’s here and the others are on their way.”

Stiles doesn’t argue, just nods and closes her eyes.  They’re quiet after that until Derek lifts her head, eyes sharp and alert, and says, “They’re coming,” and then there’s a pounding on the door and Scott’s voice calling out.

“It’s us, don’t shoot!”

Allison stands down as Scott and Isaac come through the door.  For a moment they’re both frozen, just staring at Derek and Stiles in horror.

“ _Stiles,_ ” Scott says brokenly, flinging himself across the cell and dropping to his knees by Derek and Stiles.

“Hey Scott,” Stiles murmurs, giving him a weak smile.  “Cutting it a little close aren’t we?”

“Where’s the ambulance?” Allison asks, her urgency snapping Scott out of it.

“On the way,” Scott says, distracted, “Should be here soon - _god,_ Stiles. I’m so sorry.  We came as soon as we could, we just didn’t know where to find you...”

“You’re here now,” Derek says. “But we need to get Stiles to a hospital. Did you get all three of Sandra’s hunters?”

“No worries, we took them out.” Isaac says, and Allison feels a fierce surge of pride. “Erica and Boyd and Mr. Argent are with them.”

“Right,” Allison says, “Scott, take Stiles and tell that ambulance to step on it.  Isaac, stay with me.”

Allison pulls up, abashed, when both Isaac and Scott look to Derek for approval. Derek gives them a weary nod, and Scott reaches out to help Stiles up. Stiles starts to reach back, then halts the motion with a wince.

“Stiles, hold still,” Derek says, then, “Scott, her ribs are cracked, maybe broken.  She needs to be as still as possible.”

“Got it,” Scott says, kneeling back down.

“I c’n walk,” Stiles says, bleary and slurred. “’s my ribs not my legs.”

“Uh huh,” Derek says, “You don’t even have shoes Stiles, you’re not walking.”

“Oh, right, my shoes,” Stiles says, looking around vaguely. “Where’re my shoes?  Scott, did you see my shoes anywhere?”

Scott and Derek exchange glances, and then Derek says, “Ambulance.  Now.  Stiles, don’t be difficult.  And stop talking.  Scott, careful of her ribs.  And her wrist.  And her fingers. And – ”

“I got it,” Scott says, lifting Stiles away from Derek, “I’ll be careful.”

Scott keeps his movements slow, but Stiles hisses at the pressure and bites her lip hard.  Derek lurches to her feet, steadying herself against the wall. 

“Derek?”

“Fine,” Derek says, fighting the headrush.

Scott looks down at Stiles, frowns and jerks his head at Isaac.  “Isaac, can you – ”

“On it,” Isaac says, stepping across the room to take Stiles’ good hand in his.  Stiles is still watching Derek with concern, but she sighs, eyes going half-lidded in relief as Isaac draws out some of the pain. He steps back after a moment, shaking his hand and looking up to meet Scott’s eyes.

“Scott...there’s a lot of pain.  I couldn’t take it all. Sorry, Stiles.”

“S’okay,” Stiles says, “better than it was.”

“Go,” Derek says, “Get her to that ambulance.”

 “But…” Stiles starts, but Derek holds up one hand.

“I’m fine,” Derek says, “I’ll be right behind you.  Go.”

Mercifully, Stiles nods and allows Scott to carry her away.

When Scott and Stiles have gone Allison sighs and looks around.  “Isaac, can you get Sandra?  I can’t carry her myself and I don’t want to leave her unattended.”

Isaac eyes Sandra with loathing, but nods. Allison turns to Derek, who is still leaning heavily against the wall.

Allison gives her a doubtful glance and Derek scowls. 

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing!” Allison answers quickly, looking away.  When she looks back Derek has managed to push herself away from the wall and is standing unaided.

“Alright,” Allison says, “Let’s go.  Derek, can you make it?”

“I’m _fine_.”

Allison doubts that, but she lets it stand.  Allison also pretends not to notice when Isaac drags Sandra up the stairs to the first floor by her feet, letting Sandra’s head hit all the steps on the way up.  Derek grins viciously at the thumps, and Allison is sure it’s nowhere close to what Derek would _like_ to be doing to Sandra, but it will have to do for now. 


	9. Chapter 9

When they reach the ground floor Derek finds Erica and Boyd standing over Sandra’s unconscious hunters with Chris Argent.  Isaac dumps Sandra at Argent’s feet and then doubles back to duck under Derek’s left arm.  Derek, who had been swaying on her feet, squeezes his shoulder in thanks.  Just outside she can hear the sound of Stiles and Scott’s heartbeats, and the sirens of an ambulance approaching.  It can’t be more than a few minutes away.

Refocusing on her immediate surroundings, Derek is torn between wanting Erica and Boyd away from Argent and wanting her own people guarding Sandra and the hunters.  Derek jerks her chin at the unconscious bodies and says, “Well?  Now what?”

Erica and Boyd shift to align their stances with Derek’s, facing down with Argent over the hunters.

“I can’t let you kill them,” Argent says, “You know that.”

Derek looks from Argent to the hunters to her betas.  Argent is an ambiguous threat standing over a pile of unambiguous threats and Derek is responsible for too many people in the immediate vicinity and she barely has the energy to stand up -

Derek feels everything slipping even further out of her control. She feels Isaac tighten his grip on her and Allison, standing on Derek’s other side, tenses.

“If we’re not killing them, what are we going to do?” Allison says, raising her chin and pointedly not budging from Derek’s side.  “We can’t just do nothing - they’ll come after the pack again.”

“We’re not going to do nothing,” Argent snaps, then takes a deep breath and says, in more measured tones, “Derek, I’m not letting them go.  I’m calling the Sheriff as soon as we get Stiles into an ambulance.  I can’t let you kill them, but I’m not going to just turn them loose.”

Derek sags against Isaac in relief, and Allison moves away to make room for Erica and Boyd, who are crowding forward to surround Derek in a huddle.  “Alright,” Derek mumbles, reaching out to her pack, drawing strength from their presence. “Boyd, Erica - keep an eye on them until the Sheriff gets here.  Isaac, you’re with me.  You two meet us at the hospital.”

“You’re going to the hospital?” Allison asks from where she’s standing next to Argent.

Derek gives her a flat look and says, “I’m not leaving Stiles alone.”

Allison moves forward, past Erica and Boyd, and says, “Okay, but we’re going to need to get you cleaned up a bit first.  You’re a mess, Derek.  If you show up at the hospital like that there’s going to be questions. And when we bring in the police there will be even more.”

“She’s right,” Argent says, “They kidnapped the daughter of the Sheriff. There will be an investigation.  Which means we need to have our story straight.  You and I both have an interest in concealing the truth but you'll have to tell them something.  If you show up at the hospital covered in blood the cops are going to want to know why you’re not hurt.”

Derek is almost more tired than she can stand; she’s not sure how she’s supposed to invent a plausible cover story when she can barely keep her feet, let alone string together coherent thoughts. “I’ll say it’s her blood.  I’ll say they left me alone, I was just there with Stiles.”

“Your t-shirt’s a wreck, Derek,” Allison says, eyes concerned. “In fact - all of your clothes are literally soaked in blood.”  

It’s true.  Between the knives and the fire and getting knocked around there’s not much left of Derek’s shirt - the burn marks in particular are going to be tough to explain in light of Derek’s unmarked skin.  And blood-drenched clothing is guaranteed to draw attention.

“Take them off,” Boyd says into the silence, and everyone turns to look at him.  Boyd looks back, calm and implacable. “If the clothes are the problem, take them off.  Burn the evidence. Say they took your clothes.  There’s probably spare clothes in this house somewhere, you can wear those to the hospital.”

“But if you tell them they took your clothes they’ll think....” Allison trails off and looks at Derek like she’s seeing her for the first time.

Argent is watching Derek with what she would call concern on anyone else.  Isaac and Allison look like they’ve just bitten into something sour. Erica’s lips are tight but she doesn’t look like this is the first time the possibility of more intimate forms of assault have crossed her mind.

“I’m fine,” Derek says, voice clipped. “Stiles too,” and watches them all relax a little.

“That’s a good idea though,” Argent says, nodding at Boyd. “You’ll say for you, everything was psychological. Threats, mostly.  And for Stiles it was physical.”

“She was protecting me,” Derek says. “She kept getting in the way.”

“Good enough,” Argent says.  “Allison, call the Sheriff, have him send people.  You’ll tell him you went with Sandra because she said she knew your Aunt Kate, and you called me and Scott when you realized what was going on.  You managed to knock her out and between you, me, Derek, and Scott, we took out these three as well.”

“Scott won’t leave Stiles,” Allison says, with absolute certainty.  “Who’s going to explain when the Sheriff shows up?”

Argent pauses a moment, thinking. “Alright,” he says at last, “Derek, you and Scott can deal with the medics.  Isaac, Boyd, and Erica will stay here with me and keep an eye on Sandra and her people. Your pack will leave when they get close, and I can stay to explain. Derek can ride with Stiles in the ambulance and Allison and Scott can drive.”

“No,” Derek says, “Leave you alone with them?  So they can conveniently escape while you look the other way?”

Argent takes a deep breath, then lets it out. “Fine,” he says, “Isaac was with Scott when Allison called.  They hang out a lot, right?  Isaac can wait with me for the cops and keep an eye on the hunters if it makes you feel better.”

Derek barely has the mental energy to process all that, but the others are nodding and what’s good enough for her betas is going to have to be good enough for her.

 And then there’s no more time because the ambulance is approaching and as much as Derek needs to be sure the hunters are secured she needs to be sure Stiles is still _breathing_ even more.  She can hear Stiles’ heartbeat from the house, but it makes her nervous to have Stiles out of sight. Erica does a quick search through the house and returns with pants and a shirt that reek of Sandra.  Derek retreats out of eyeshot of the others with Erica and changes quickly, handing off the rags of her clothes.  It’s not a perfect fit, and it makes Derek’s skin crawl to be wearing Sandra’s clothes, but at least she’s decent and less likely to prompt unanswerable questions. She gives Erica a quick, fierce hug and then Isaac helps her outside to where Scott is holding Stiles in the driveway, waiting anxiously for the ambulance.  Stiles is unconscious; too-still in Scott’s arms and Derek has a moment of panic before she remembers she can still hear Stiles’ heartbeat.

“She passed out on the way up the stairs,” Scotts tells her.  “I was being as careful as I could.”

Derek nods, counting the seconds until the ambulance arrives.  When it finally pulls up and the EMTs spill out Scott says, “Oh thank god,” and hands Stiles over.  Derek knows they’re here to help but she still has to quash a knee-jerk impulse to snatch Stiles back from the unknown EMT who takes her from Scott.

“Miss?  Are you alright?” One of the other EMTs is talking to her and Derek turns her head slowly.

“I’m fine,” Derek says, “but I’m not leaving her.” Scott catches her by the arm as she staggers and the concern in the EMT’s eyes amps up a level.

“Miss, when was the last time you had something to eat or drink?”

“It’s Derek,” Derek says, eyes still on Stiles as the EMTs settle her in the ambulance. “Yesterday, maybe. They weren’t big on feeding us.  Can we go now?  She needs help.”

Derek’s EMT gives her an assessing look and he seems to be in charge because he says, “Alright Derek, we’re going to give you an IV, alright?  Start you on some fluids.  You and your friend too, you can ride back to the hospital together.”

Derek nods, weary, and climbs into the back of the ambulance after Stiles, pushing the other EMTs aside.  She lays one hand on the pulse point on Stiles’ neck as another EMT hooks Stiles up to an IV, then turns to look out the back of the vehicle.  “Isaac,” she calls, forcing herself to think clearly for a few more seconds, “Scott.  Meet me at the hospital later.  Be careful.  Tell the others.” 

They nod, expressions serious, and she hopes to hell they won’t do anything stupid before she’s back on her game.  Derek doesn’t think she could handle another crisis right now. As the doors close Derek props herself up against the side of the ambulance next to Stiles, pushes up one sleeve of Sandra’s shirt and says, “I’m just dehydrated.  You can give me something for that, but no drugs.”

“But -” one of the younger EMTs starts.

“No drugs!” Derek repeats, glaring.  “Help Stiles, I’m fine.”

“Alright!” one of them says, “We’ll just do saline, okay?  And some vitamins.”

“Fine.”

Derek really wants to pass out, but the EMTs keep eyeing her like they’re sure she’s holding out on them.  The first time one of them, a sandy-haired kid, tries to check her for injuries Derek pushes him away and snaps, “Don’t _touch_ me.” The kid backs off, eyes wide.  They leave her alone after that, but Derek has no intention of testing their resolve by falling asleep.

Stiles is still unconscious when they arrive at the hospital.  She gets carried out on a stretcher and Derek rips the IV out of her arm without thinking about it to follow, brushing off the protesting EMTs. 

Scott must have called ahead, because Melissa McCall meets them almost as soon as they step through the door.  She takes one look at Derek and Stiles and holds up her hand to cut off the EMTs, who are trying to explain Derek’s total refusal to cooperate.

“I’ll handle this,” Melissa tells them. “Call Doctor Zhang.  Should I take Stiles to X-ray?”

“Yes,” sandy-blond kid says, “Ribs and right fingers and wrist.  Maybe more we’re not sure.” He tells Melissa what Derek had told them about Stiles’ condition, plus some other stuff like blood pressure and heart rate that Derek mostly tunes out.

Melissa frowns, but nods and says, “I’ll take it from here.  Derek, you come with me.”

Derek follows Melissa as she takes over the stretcher and starts wheeling it down the hallway.

“Are _you_ alright?” Melissa asks, as soon as they’re out of earshot. “You look like hell.”

“Fine,” Derek says curtly, focusing on not falling over. “Worry about Stiles.”

“We’ll take care of her,” Melissa says. “Scott and Allison are on their way and the police will be here any minute.  You’ll have to give a statement.  Do you know what you’re going to say?”

“Yes,” Derek says, and hovers anxiously as Melissa hands Stiles over to a team of doctors who take her into a room and bar Derek from following.  Derek paces in the hallway until Melissa gently tells her that she’s in the way and needs to let the doctors do their work.  One of the other nurses gets Derek a chair and she’s sitting there, staring into space and monitoring Stiles’ heartbeat when someone clears his throat and she looks up, automatically on the defensive.

“Derek Hale?”

It’s a cop, one of the Sheriff’s deputies.

“Where’s the Sheriff?” Derek asks, and feels a stab of guilt.  Sheriff Stilinski is going to _kill_ her for letting Stiles get hurt like this.

“He was out in Northfork chasing leads.  We had no idea where you two were.  He’s on his way back now.  I know you must be tired but I need to ask you some questions, okay?”

He’s keeping his voice low and soothing, treating her like she’s fragile.  Part of Derek appreciates it, and part of her is afraid she’ll fall apart if anyone is nice to her right now.

“Okay,” Derek says, and the cop, whose name badge reads “Officer Martinez” pulls up a chair and takes out a pad of paper.

“Alright,” Officer Martinez says, “Start at the beginning.  Can you tell me what happened?”

Derek takes a deep breath and begins.  She tells him how she’d been staying in the old train depot since everything with her house, her family, her sister, her uncle.  How Stiles was helping her out, how they’d been grabbed by Sandra’s goons and how Derek had been the target but Stiles had been in the way. She keeps as close to the truth as she can.

“I’m fine, physically.” Derek tells Officer Martinez, “Not like Stiles.  I mean, they weren’t really feeding us much-”

Officer Martinez stops writing and gives her a searching look.  “Oh, god, have you eaten?  Has anyone gotten you something to eat?”

Derek suddenly remembers that she’s essentially starving and shakes her head, stomach rumbling.  Officer Martinez flags down a nurse and tells her to bring some food and water.  She returns a few minutes later with soup, jello, a juice-box and bottled water and the interview is put on hold while Derek inhales everything on the tray.  What she really wants is to chug a few gallons of water and eat her weight in protein, but she thinks that menu would probably make a human in her condition violently ill, so she limits herself to what’s on the tray.

“Jesus,” Martinez says, watching her with wide eyes, “Slow down, you’ll make yourself sick.”

Derek looks up from her now-empty tray and swallows, abashed.  “Sorry,” she says, “I was just really hungry.”

“No kidding,” Martinez returns and, when he seems to think Derek’s had enough time to catch her breath, he pulls out his notepad again.  “Did they hurt you?” Martinez asks, and Derek swallows hard.

“I - nothing that left a mark,” Derek answers truthfully.  “You know, mind games.  They hurt Stiles when she tried to stop them.  And they - they took my clothes,” Derek says, staring down at her hands.  “When Allison found us she went through the house to find me something to wear.  I don’t know whose clothes I’m wearing now, but I’d really like to shower and sleep and get my own clothes back...”

Derek has been trying not to think about that fact that she’s wearing Sandra’s clothes, that she carries Sandra’s scent with her everywhere she goes.  It kind of makes her want to scratch her skin off and some of that must show on her face because Officer Martinez gives her a sympathetic look and says, “I just need to ask you a few more questions, then you can get cleaned up.”

Derek gives him a tight, jerky nod.

“You said they took your clothes...Do you - do I need to ask the doctors for –”

“A rape kit?” Derek finishes, voice hard, and shakes her head. “No.  Stiles doesn’t need one either. But thank you.”

Officer Martinez nods, relieved.  One piece of horrible news he _won’t_ have to be bringing to his boss.

“Good,” he says, “We’ll have to confirm with Stiles, but that’s….good to know.  I think you can go shower and sleep and change clothes now.  We’ll need to keep the clothes for evidence, but I think you’re set otherwise.”

Derek nods and Officer Martinez flags down another nurse who shows Derek to one of the patient bathrooms.  Derek hands off a bag with her borrowed clothing (which she can barely stand to look at) to a nurse to give to Officer Martinez, and closes the bathroom door with a sigh of relief.

Derek stays in the shower a long time.  She means to be quick about it, but she has to wash her hair six times to get all the blood and sweat and dirt out of it, and then it just feels _so good_ to be standing under the hot water, so good to be _clean_ again, that Derek can’t help staying in a little longer.  She washes off what feels like nine layers of assorted grime, then steps out of the shower and dresses in the scrubs some helpful person has laid out for her. She still feels naked - scrubs are flimsier than she’d like and she’d had to leave her underwear at the house to be disposed of - but it will do for now.  

When Derek finally emerges from the bathroom Scott is sitting on the narrow patient bed, waiting for her. Normally, Derek spends about ninety percent of her time not dedicated to survival trying to convince Scott to join her pack.  Right now she doesn’t have the energy. Allison, much to Derek’s relief, is nowhere to be seen.  Derek is grateful for the rescue, but Allison is still a hunter, and an Argent.

“Stiles?”

“My mom says she’s in surgery.  They’re setting her wrist and her fingers.  She should be out soon, my mom will let us know as soon as there’s news.”

Derek nods.  She hates waiting and she hates hospitals.  Derek resists asking for reassurances Scott can’t give.  They both jump when the door opens, but it’s just Melissa. 

“She’s still in surgery,” Melissa says, “and we’re still doing some tests but she should be okay.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, and then Melissa McCall is taking her by the elbow and guiding her over to the bed. Derek wonders when Melissa stopped being afraid of her; probably about the same time Derek stumbled through the hospital doors looking half-dead and barely capable of uttering a coherent sentence. 

“Come on,” Melissa is saying, “It’ll be a little while.  Sit down before you fall over and just…rest, okay?  I’ll come get you when Stiles is out of surgery.”

Derek nods, and is vaguely aware of Scott and his mother exchanging glances, but can’t spare the energy to interpret it.  Melissa gets Derek another IV of saline solution, a pitcher of water, a small water glass (with a reminder to go slowly) and a basin in case she ignores Melissa’s advice and throws up.

When Melissa has left the room, Derek sits on the edge of the hospital bed, staring blankly at the floor, hands clenching and unclenching in her lap.

“Derek,” Scott says, his tone hesitant, “Derek you can go to sleep if you want, I’ll wake you up as soon as anything happens.”

Derek just looks at Scott, who holds up his hands in a peacemaking gesture and says, “Or not!  I’m just saying, I’ll be here if you want to rest.” 

Derek can’t fall asleep - she might actually murder the first unsuspecting nurse who tries to wake her - but she tells herself it can’t hurt to lie down for just a second... 


	10. Chapter 10

Allison stays behind when Scott goes to find Derek; she figures having her around will just make Derek jumpy.  Lydia shows up a few minutes later, takes one look at Allison’s face and says, “Is Stiles going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Allison says, “I hope so.”

Lydia nods and pulls Allison over to sit on the hideously uncomfortable hospital waiting room chairs.  “But you got them out.” 

“Yeah,” Allison says, “we did, but….”

“But it was bad,” Lydia finishes for her.

Allison looks over and meets Lydia’s eyes. “Really bad.  Derek is….I think she’s okay physically, but – you should have seen her with Stiles, Lyds.”

Allison closes her eyes and shakes her head to dislodge the memory.  Next to her, Lydia doesn’t say anything.  Lydia doesn’t really do comforting; but she reaches over and takes Allison’s hand.  Allison grips back and the two of them sit there in silence until the others show up. 

 

 

***

By the time Greg gets back to back to town everything is over.  He’ll be pissed about it later; right now he just needs to see Stiles.

She’s asleep when he gets there, hooked up to half a dozen different machines.  Scott, sitting at her bedside with Allison Argent and Lydia Martin, takes one look at Greg’s face and vacates the room, towing Allison and Lydia with him.  Greg listens, numb, to the litany of injuries; stares down at his daughter’s bruised, too-thin face.  He thanks the doctor and sits by Stiles’ bedside, holding her un-bandaged hand and contemplating murder. 

After a while Stiles starts to stir.  She frowns in her sleep, twisting and turning before waking with a start.

“Derek?” she says, staring right through Greg, then looking around wildly. “Derek!  Where’s Derek? They’re killing her!”

“Stiles!  Stiles it’s me.  Derek’s fine, I promise, your friends are with her, she’s fine.” Greg says, hands on Stiles’ shoulders, trying to keep Stiles from thrashing about and doing herself further injury. 

“She said they were going to kill her,” Stiles says, eyes frantic, “Sandra said –”

“Stiles!” Greg says again, gripping Stiles’ hand, “It’s okay.  Derek’s safe, you’re both safe.”

Stiles stares at him for another second, then relaxes back against her pillows, her eyes clearing.

 “Dad?” She says, uncertainly.

“Right here,” he says, hoarse, and gives her fingers a gentle squeeze.

“Oh,” she murmurs, “That’s good.  I was worried about you.” 

Greg fights a renewed surge of helpless, protective fury.  There are currently four people locked up in his jail, people who abducted his little girl - hurt her _deliberately,_ left her nearly dead - and she’s worried about _him_.  Greg concentrates on breathing. 

“Derek’s really okay?”

“She really is,” Greg manages, “You can see her later.  Go back to sleep, okay?  You’re going to be fine.”

Stiles nods, reassured, then she closes her eyes.  After a while Stiles’ grip on Greg’s hand loosens and her breathing evens out. Greg waits until he’s sure she’s out, then steps into the hallway and calls Scott over.  Scott comes, but he looks anxious.  Greg stands there for a second, staring at his daughter’s best friend, then pulls Scott into a crushing hug.

“I’m gonna need a statement from you kiddo, and we’re going to need to have a serious talk later.  But you saved Stiles, and I can’t even begin to thank you for that.”

Scott hugs back, tentative at first, then more solid.  Greg lets go and steps back, turning to Allison.

“You too Allison.  Thank you.  I’ll need to talk to both of you, but I need to talk to Chris first.  Allison, could you go get your dad for me?”

Allison nods and vanishes down the hallway.  Greg sighs and goes back to sit with Stiles until Allison gets back with Chris.      

 

 

***

When Allison has returned with her father in tow and tactfully excused herself to go sit with Stiles and Scott and Lydia, Greg takes a deep breath and meets Chris Argent’s eyes with all the authority he can muster.  They’re in the hallway because Greg is epically unwilling let Stiles out of his sight.  It does mean he has to keep his voice down.  This is an effort, but he manages. 

“I should start by thanking you for helping to get Stiles and Derek out of there.” Greg says. “The four of you probably saved their lives and I will always be grateful for that.” Chris nods his acknowledgement and Greg continues, “But I also question your judgment.  I’ve read your statement, and I have to ask - what the hell were you thinking going in there alone?   I expect this kind of thing from Allison and Scott, but you?  This isn’t an action movie, and you should know better than to go rushing in like a damn vigilante!”

“I didn’t know,” Chris says, expression the perfect image of sincerity and helpfulness. “Allison just said something felt off and to come get her.  I didn’t know it was Stiles.”

“And you and three teenagers managed to subdue four dangerous criminals in their own house without a scratch to show for it?”

“I guess we got lucky,” Chris says, and it’s a perfectly normal response but something about Chris’ tone is off.  Greg’s whole county has been going off the rails in increasingly unpredictable ways for the last nine months.  Now he’s questioning Chris Argent, upstanding pillar of the community who should have no reason to lie to him and everything in Greg is telling him that Chris is lying, that he knows his story doesn’t add up and is trying desperately to cover for it.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Greg says, making his voice hard. “Half of my investigations lately have tied back to your family; the other half back to the Hales.  Stiles is clearly more involved than she wants me to know.  My daughter nearly died out there and I want answers.”  

“I’m sorry Sheriff,” Chris says, “That’s really everything I know.”

Greg is far from satisfied, but Chris Argent isn’t exactly a suspect.  If he doesn’t want to talk there’s not much Greg can do about it.  Not without more evidence anyway.

Greg gives Argent a tight smile and says, “Alright, well.  Thanks for your help.  Stay in touch.”

 

 

***

Later, standing in the hallway with Lydia, watching Sheriff Stilinski sitting by Stiles’ hospital bed, Allison makes a decision. Scott has left to go keep an eye on Derek – he’s worried Derek will freak out and destroy the hospital when she wakes up and given the state Derek was in last time Allison saw her, Allison thinks that’s probably a valid concern.  

“We need to tell him,” she says to Lydia, who raises one perfectly groomed eyebrow.

“The Sheriff?  About werewolves?”

“Yes,” Allison says, resolve solidifying. “Someone has to.”

“And that someone is you?”

“Us,” Allison corrects.  “Come on, we need a werewolf.”

“Who, Scott?”

“No,” Allison grimaces. “Not Scott.  Stiles made him promise not to tell and he’s not going to break that promise, now of all times.  It has to be someone else.”

Lydia smiles. “The others are with Derek, right?  Okay, come on.  I know who we should ask.”  

 

***

“Really?” Erica says, when Allison pulls her away from the room where Derek is sleeping. “You want me to help you tell the _Sheriff_ about werewolves?”

“Mmmhmmm,” Lydia says, pursing her lips.

“Yes,” Allison says, “Yes, we do.”

“And why would I do that?” Erica asks, looking them both up and down with undisguised disdain. “Once a freak, always a freak?  I don’t know if you two have noticed but publicity and werewolves is not a good mix.”

“ _Please,_ Erica,” Allison starts, and it’s the exact wrong thing to say.

“‘Please’?” Erica sneers back at her, “That’s what I said when you were shooting me and Boyd full of arrows, and you didn’t listen. Why the _hell_ should I help you?”

Allison is searching for an answer when Lydia rescues her.

“Because you’re not doing it for Allison,” Lydia says, with complete confidence.  “It’s for Stiles.  Because her dad needs to know, and because she needs for him to know and she’s in no shape for true confessions.  And all that aside, we could use the extra fire-power and after this there’s no way the Sheriff isn’t going to be on Team Werewolf.”

Erica glares at both of them for several long seconds, then tosses her hair and says, “Fine.  So long as we’re clear I’m doing this for Stiles, not for you.” 

 

 

***

Greg is still sitting at Stiles’ bedside when the door opens and Allison Argent steps in.

“Sheriff Stilinski?” she says, voice hushed, “Can I talk to you for a minute? I – we – there’s something we should tell you.”

Greg hesitates – he’s less than keen on leaving his daughter’s bedside.

“It’s important,” Allison says, “Boyd can sit with her.”

“Boyd?  Who’s Boyd?”  Greg looks at the new kid while Allison ushers him in. 

“Sheriff,” the kid says, holding out one hand. “Good to meet you, sir.  I’m a friend of Stiles’.  I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Greg’s never even seen this boy before, but he appreciates the obvious concern for Stiles. Greg sighs and gets up, with a last look at Stiles to be sure she’s really still asleep; he doesn’t want her waking up without him there.

“Okay,” Greg says, once out in the hallway. “Make it quick though, alright?”

Allison nods, twisting her hands together.  Lydia Martin and one of the Reyes girls are with her. Greg knows he’s been out of the loop, but he doesn’t even know who Stiles is hanging out with anymore.  He knows Allison, of course, because of Scott, but the last he’d heard Lydia Martin wouldn’t give Stiles the time of day and all he’s got on Reyes is a vague memory of Stiles mentioning some kind of epileptic episode during gym. 

“Sheriff Stilinski, I – we need to tell you something about….about Stiles.  And Derek, and….oh, god, I’m doing this wrong aren’t I?”

“It’s about the kidnapping, and about all the weird stuff that’s been happening in Beacon Hills,” Lydia cuts in smoothly.  “And it’s going to sound crazy, but you need to hear us out.”

“Alright,” Greg says, assessing the trio cautiously.  Allison looks earnest and distressed, Lydia is resolute, and Reyes has her arms crossed and is wearing a mulish expression.  “I’m listening.” 

“Okay,” Allison says, taking a deep breath and looking to the other two girls for support.  Lydia nods, Reyes just rolls her eyes.  “It’s not animal attacks,” Allison says, and Greg blinks, caught off-guard.

“What?”

“It’s not animal attacks,” Allison repeats, “and all those deputies, that night at the station – the strange deaths all over town….Stiles didn’t want to tell you because she thought it would put you in danger, but all that stuff it’s – it’s all connected.”

There’s a sick, churning sensation in Greg’s stomach.  “And Stiles – all of you, you’re all mixed up in this?  What is it, drugs?  A gang thing?”

“It’s – please don’t freak out, okay?  It’s complicated but Stiles has been trying to stop it.  Stiles and Scott and….and Derek.  But it’s not drugs or gangs or anything like that, it’s….” Allison stumbles to a halt and Lydia takes over for her.

“It’s werewolves,” Lydia says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “It’s not drugs and it’s not a gang and they aren’t animal attacks.  It’s werewolves.  And some other related things.”

Greg just stares at the three of them in disbelief _._ “Is this some kind of joke? Allison, I appreciate what you did for Stiles, but this is not the time for pranks.”

“Sheriff Stilinski, we can prove it, but you have to stay calm,” Lydia says, pulling Greg’s attention away from Allison and gesturing to Reyes. “Erica?”

And then, before Greg can even begin to respond, the Reyes girl – Erica – looks up and her eyes are….there’s no other word for it, they’re _glowing._  Erica raises one hand and Greg can see nails, nails that are not remotely human, lengthening before his eyes. Allison and Lydia are standing next to her, watching Greg’s reaction, and then Erica curls her lips away from teeth that are too long and too sharp….Greg takes a quick step backwards.

“It’s alright,” Allison says, “She’s on our side, we just needed you to know what was going on.  We needed you to believe us.”

“I….” Greg is tempted to protest, to say it’s a trick, a clever costume.  But it’s not.

“Sheriff Stilinski, the sooner you can get past this supernatural existential crisis, the sooner we can explain what happened with Stiles and Derek.” Lydia’s expression is earnest and all three girls are watching him with varying degrees of aprehension.

“Alright,” Greg says, feeling poleaxed, “Alright, I think I need to sit down.  And then I need you kids to tell me everything.”


	11. Chapter 11

The sound of a door clicking shut pulls Derek awake.  Somewhat to Derek’s surprise, Scott is still there. So are Isaac and Erica, which explains Derek’s vague sense of safety and why she’s not currently tearing the room apart in a blind panic.  Derek sits up and looks around.  Melissa McCall is standing just inside the door.

“Derek, you’re awake.”

Derek swings her legs around to face Melissa and says, “Stiles?”

“She’s doing fine,” Melissa says, smiling. “We’re keeping her overnight for observation, but she should be good to go in the morning.  We set her fingers and her wrist and taped up her ribs, and she’s on antibiotics for a mild case of pneumonia - _mild,_ Derek, Doctor Zhang says we caught it before it could really take hold. She’s going to be okay.” 

Derek lets out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, only slightly reassured. She still needs to see Stiles for herself, but it will have to do for now. She looks around at the others. “How long was I out?  What did I miss?”

“Just a few hours,” Scott says, “And you haven’t missed much. We’d have woken you when Stiles got out of surgery, but she was sleeping and, well.  We thought you could use the rest.  Anyway, she’s awake now.”

Derek nods, taking stock.  Physically, she’s still tired, but no longer feeling half-dead.  There’s an IV still stuck in her arm - she probably has that to thank for not feeling worse.  Derek rips it out absently, assessing. She’s starving and her throat’s a little dry, but she doesn’t have the urge to drain a lake, so the saline drip must have worked its magic.

“Derek,” Melissa starts, then sighs, walking over to Derek. “You need to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Pulling out your IV.  It’s bad for your veins, no matter what you see in action movies.”

“We heal quickly,” Derek says, holding up her arm for inspection.  “It’s fine.”

“Okay, well, normal people wait for the trained medical professionals.  The EMTs were complaining about you - people notice these things.”  Melissa has her arms crossed and she looks disgruntled. “I was under the impression that the goal was to be low-profile about the werewolf thing.”

“Oh,” Derek says.  “Right.  Sorry.  And thanks.  So, where is Stiles?  Who’s with her?”  

“Her dad’s with her,” Scott says, “And Boyd and Lydia and Allison.  We posted a guard, don’t worry.  I’d be there too, but we thought you’d want to know she was awake.”

A hunter, a werewolf, and the Sheriff.  Derek relaxes a little further.  “And the hunters,” Derek asks, “Where are they?”

“They, uh.  Allison called the cops, remember?  They’ve all been arrested.”  Isaac says.

 _Oh, right._ Derek remembers now.

“Yeah, um, they’re all in custody now.” Scott adds helpfully,“they’re charging them with kidnapping and unlawful restraint and um, torture of a minor.  Sheriff Stilinski says there’s going to be a trial.” There’s a vindictive gleam in Scott’s eyes, but Derek isn’t impressed.

_Arrested._

Derek had been afraid Chris Argent would let them go - hunter loyalty trumping other concerns.  Arrested is better than nothing, but it’s not good enough.  Derek wants them _dead._  She has no reason to trust the effectiveness of a justice system that let her family’s killers go free.  Derek remembers the crack of Stiles’ wrist breaking, remembers them beating Stiles as she lay helpless on the floor.  She can still feel Stiles’ hand twisted desperately into her shirt, Stiles’ tears on her neck. She is done playing softball with these people. She didn’t have the time or energy to argue the point with Chris back at the house, but now...

Melissa clears her throat, pulling Derek out of her thoughts. Derek glances around at her betas, who are all staring at her, tense and worried. 

Derek forces herself into a neutral expression. “Fine,” she says, “I’ll let the Sheriff handle it.” _For now._ “I need food and some actual clothes and then I’m going to see Stiles.”

“We’ve got you covered,” Erica says, tossing her hair, her usual spirit returning. She hands Derek a pile of familiar clothes. “We grabbed your stuff from the depot when you went missing.  I’ve been keeping it at my place.”

“Thanks,” Derek says, swallowing a sudden lump in her throat and retreating into the bathroom to change. 

Shrugging into her familiar leather jacket feels like coming home.  Derek feels more herself than she has since this whole fiasco began.

When she’s dressed Derek takes a moment to study herself in the bathroom mirror.  She’s too thin.  Inadequate food and extensive healing and pain-pulling have left her positively gaunt - they should take pictures, Derek thinks bitterly, it’ll be good for their case.  But otherwise she looks the same, there’s no marks to show for the last six nightmarish days of her life.  Nothing but memories.  Well, memories and Stiles; Stiles is carrying enough marks for both of them.

 

 

  
~~  
~~***

Derek runs into Sheriff Stilinski on the way to Stiles’ room.

They see each other at the same time and stop.  Derek stands there in the hallway feeling awkward and anxious.  She doesn’t know what to do with her hands and she doesn’t know what to say.  _I’m sorry Sir, I nearly got your daughter killed…_

Sheriff Stilinski is watching her like she’s a time-bomb that might go off at any moment.  Derek squares her shoulders and makes herself meet his eyes without flinching.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, “I tried to keep her safe.”

“I’m still wrapping my head around this,” the Sheriff says, eyes never leaving hers. “Werewolves and hunters and kanimas.”

Derek freezes, instantly on alert.  If the Sheriff knows, there’s no telling who else knows as well, and no telling if they’ll be sympathetic (unlikely) or view her and her pack as a threat to be eliminated.  She’s still exhausted - there’s no realistic way she can fight herself out of this hospital without backup, even if she were willing to take the risk of hurting Stiles’ dad. Derek keeps her eyes on the Sheriff, but most of her attention is focused on listening for anything out of place, anything that might mean she has to run - or fight - for her life in the next few seconds.

Stilinski’s a cop, and while he doesn’t have werewolf senses he _does_ have a cop’s sense of danger, which is close, and he holds up his hands peaceably.  He is still, Derek notices, wearing his gun.

“I talked with Allison and Lydia and Erica,” he says, seeing her look. “I don’t think I’ll ever look at Scott the same way again,” he continues, expression rueful, “but there’s a lot that is starting to make more sense. I understand how Stiles got mixed up in all this, but...” The Sheriff shakes his head.

Derek can only imagine how he must be feeling.  His daughter has been missing for nearly a week, and was found half-dead in a _dungeon_. He’s been sitting by her hospital bed since he got the news and of course he wanted answers. That he got his answers from Allison Argent, of all people, bears further exploration, and Derek is going to have to have a conversation with Erica about need-to-know information and the inadvisability of letting one’s alpha walk into a potentially dangerous situation without full disclosure, but all that can keep.  What matters now is that he knows, and that he’s not - not immediately anyway - treating her like a threat.  Derek would understand if he blamed her, even without the werewolf stuff.  She might, in his place. 

“What,” the Sheriff clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I...Stiles won’t talk about it, and Martinez obviously didn’t get the full story from you.  I need details. From what Allison and Erica said, you were the original target, Stiles was just...in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just….how did she end up like - like this?”

The Sheriff makes a helpless, all-encompassing gesture.  Derek relaxes a fraction and regards him steadily, assessing. Why Stiles, is what he’s really asking.  If they were after Derek, why is it _Stiles_ lying beat to hell in a hospital bed with multiple broken bones?

“She was protecting me.” Derek says simply.  “They were threatening me, and Stiles got in the way.  I couldn’t stop her.” Derek rubs at one wrist absently, sees the Sheriff notice, and stops.

Derek watches him struggle.  He’s a _cop_ \- he protects others, puts himself in harm’s way for a living.  Doesn’t mean it’s comforting to learn the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree.

They stare at each other in awkward silence for a moment before the Sheriff finally pulls himself together.

“I’m getting some food from the cafe,” he says, watching her carefully.  “She’s in room 342.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, and makes tracks before she has to answer any more awkward questions.

She finds Boyd sitting on a plastic chair, keeping watch in the hallway outside of Stiles’ room.  He stands up when he sees her. Inside Derek can hear Allison’s voice, and Lydia’s, and, much softer, Stiles’.

“We’re good,” Boyd tells her, and Derek nods. 

Boyd still hasn’t quite forgiven Allison for shooting him and Erica and leaving them to Gerard’s not-so-tender mercies.  Derek hasn’t forgotten that, nor has she forgotten that Allison Argent once left her chained in a dungeon to be tortured, shot her twice, and tried to kill her...but Allison’s not the first impressionable young girl to be taken in by Kate Argent.  She’s not Derek’s favorite person by a long shot, but she did just save Stiles’ life, and Derek’s as well, which counts for a lot.  

Derek takes a deep breath, and pushes the door open.

Stiles is sitting up in bed, propped up by a small mountain of pillows.  She’s smiling at something Allison’s just said but when she sees Derek standing in the doorway she goes still, staring at Derek with wide eyes.

Allison and Lydia pause and turn towards the door. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, then stops, suddenly awkward, and nods to Allison and Lydia. “Hello.”

Lydia stands up, grabs Allison by the arm and says, “Coffee break.  We’ll be back later.”  She tows Allison bodily out of the room, leaving Derek and Stiles alone, staring at each other across the room.

For a moment Derek can’t speak, just stares at Stiles, taking her in.  Stiles is wearing loose cotton scrubs.  She’s got tubes sticking out of her left arm; her right is covered in a cheerful, poison-green plaster cast.  Derek can see a crude drawing of a lacrosse stick from across the room; Scott’s work, no doubt.  Stiles is pale and bruised and too thin, but she’s safe, and conscious and she looks so much better it _hurts._

“You look - you look good,” Derek says, clearing her throat.  “I mean, better.  You look better.  Are you – how do you feel?”

“Better,” Stiles says, giving Derek a tiny smile, her fingers plucking nervously at the hospital blankets. “And, you do too.  Look better, I mean.  Are you, um.  You’re okay, now, right?”

“I’m a werewolf,” Derek says, shrugging.  “I’m fine.”

Stiles frowns and sits up straighter. “Okay, no, that is actually not at all reassuring.  Just because you have superpowers and super-healing doesn’t mean you’re okay.”

Derek looks away, then back to Stiles. “Really, I’m ok.  I mean, I could probably sleep for a week straight, but I was a lot more worried about you.  You were - you were a mess last time I saw you.” 

“Oh, I’m good,” Stiles says, and grins a little around her split lip, which looks painful.  “All patched up.  Told you Stilinskis were tough.”

“I think I told you that.”

“And hey, you were right!” Stiles says, but her eyes are far away and there’s a brittle edge to her smile. 

Derek clears her throat, searching for a safer subject, her gaze falling on Stiles’ cast. Derek gestures at it and says, “Scott moves fast, doesn’t he?”

Stiles’ distant expression clears as she looks down at the lacrosse stick on her cast.  She laughs, then coughs, wincing and holding her ribs.

Derek is across the room before she’s realized she’s moved, reaching out automatically to draw off some of the pain.  To Derek’s surprise, Stiles jerks away, batting at Derek’s outstretched hand.

“No, _don’t,_ ” Stiles says, her voice high and sharp.  Derek freezes and Stiles’ expression shifts from something like fear to apologetic guilt. “Sorry,” Stiles says, softer, “I know you’re trying to help it’s just, it reminds me of – of there. And it….hurts you.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says, bewildered, “I don’t mind –”

“ _I_ mind,” Stiles says fiercely.  “I mind a lot.  Just…don’t, okay?  I’ve got meds and they’re doing their thing, I just….need to be still for a while, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Derek says, hands up. “Okay, I won’t.  Just….let me just check on you, ok? ”

Stiles nods and holds still while Derek tugs up Stiles’ scrubs to see the hospital-white wrapping around her ribs.  Stiles smells like medicine and strangers _,_ and after the week they’ve had it’s putting Derek on edge.  Derek sits on the edge of the bed and sniffs at Stiles’s bandages, the cast on Stiles’ arm, searching for hints of infection.  There’s a strong scent of what Derek thinks might be painkillers and under that-

“Pneumonia,” Derek says, leaning back and staring hard at Stiles. “Melissa said pneumonia.”

“Just a little bit,” Stiles tells her, “They’ve got me on antibiotics for a while, I’ll be fine.” 

Derek leans forward again, sniffing, trying to see if she’s missed anything, then sits back and sneezes.  Someone has obviously washed Stiles' hair and the shampoo was heavily scented.

“You done now?” Stiles asks, raising her eyebrows at Derek.

“For now.”  Derek thinks maybe she should be embarrassed about sniffing at Stiles like this, but she can’t make herself care.

“It’s not that bad, so long as you don’t make me laugh,” Stiles says, shrugging.  She stops, grimacing as the motion pulls at her bandages.  “I’m really surprisingly okay, considering. Hoping to skip the PTSD, but that’s probably a no-go.”

Derek winces and looks away.  If Stiles gets out of this with nothing but nightmares to show for it she’ll be lucky.  When Derek looks back at Stiles she’s staring down at her cast, expression serious.

“My dad says Sandra and - and the others are in custody.  But, what if they have friends, or I don’t know -”

“We’ll deal with Sandra later,” Derek cuts in, “it sounds like your dad has it under control for now.”

Stiles nods, fingers of her good hand tapping restlessly against her thigh.  “So that’s it, then?” she says, “It’s over?”

“It’s over,” Derek lies easily.  She’s still ripping those bastards’ throats out if she ever get the chance, but Stiles doesn’t necessarily need to know that.  She suspects she’ll have to fight Sheriff Stilinski for the privilege. 

“Okay,” Stiles says. 

Stiles picks at the blankets, silent for a moment, while Derek sits awkwardly, watching her.  In the lull, Derek’s stomach makes a loud, discontented noise, reminding Derek that she’s still starving. Stiles looks startled, then smiles.

“Know what’s great about hospitals?” Stiles says, eyes gleaming.

Derek is of the firm belief that there is nothing at all great about hospitals.  Hospitals mean death and injuries too serious for werewolves to heal, which means permanent if not fatal consequences.  This is not a helpful opinion, however, so Derek bites her tongue and just makes an inquiring sound.

“They bring you breakfast in bed.  Or, dinner I guess.  There’s a button and everything.”  Stiles reaches for the miniature remote control at the side of her bed and pushes a green button. They order two trays from the nurse who answers the call.  He glances at the chart at the foot of Stiles’ bed and vanishes.  Stiles sits back against her pillows, looking smug, but her face falls when the nurse returns with two trays containing juice and jello. 

“Well,” Stiles says, making a face. “It’s great except for how we’re apparently on clear liquids only.”

“I got soup when I came in,” Derek offers.  

“With noodles and stuff?”

Derek nods.

“Lucky,” Stiles says, digging into her jello. “Mmmm, cherry.  Last time it was lime.  Blech.”

“Careful,” Derek says, suddenly worried, “Melissa says to take it easy and stop if you feel sick -”

“Because throwing up would be hideously painful and might actually finish breaking my ribs,” Stiles finishes for her. “Trust me, I do _not_ want to be throwing up anytime soon.  I’ll be careful.”

They sit on Stiles’ narrow hospital bed and eat the jello. Derek polishes her portion off in record time and makes a mental note to get one of the betas to bring her some real food soon; she’s still ravenous. Right now, however, her priority is Stiles.    

Derek stacks the empty trays and comes back to stand by Stiles’ bed.  Stiles is quiet, her fingers tracing patterns on the white hospital sheets; Derek remembers the feel of those same aimless shapes on her skin.

Stiles looks up at her and their eyes meet and hold for a long moment. Derek feels her face heat up, hopes the blush doesn’t show.  She should look away.  She should leave, go find some real food and let Stiles rest, track down Stiles’ dad, something….Derek doesn’t move.

A nurse who is not Melissa opens the door and Derek and Stiles both jump, startled.

“Ms. Hale?” the nurse says, walking over to check the readings on all the machines Stiles is hooked up to.  “I think Ms. Stilinski has had enough of visitors for now.  I’m going to have to ask you to come back later.”

“ _No._ ”

The spike of fear from Stiles has Derek bristling, because while she knows she should be responsible here she cannot, _cannot_ deal with the scent of Stiles’ fear right now. Derek finds herself stepping between Stiles and the nurse, trying to turn bared teeth into a smile.  It’s not working; the poor woman looks terrified. Behind her, Derek can hear Stiles’ heart pounding.

Derek holds up both hands in a placating gesture. “Sorry, we’re both a little jumpy. I think I should stay here with her.”

“I – I’ll tell the doctor,” the nurse manages, and flees.

Derek sighs.  She’ll have to do damage control later.  For now, there’s Stiles. Derek turns and sinks down on the bed. She reaches out and wraps one hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, threading the fingers of her other hand through Stiles’ hair and leaning forward until their foreheads are touching.  Stiles wraps the fingers of her good hand around Derek’s wrist and leans into Derek.  Derek holds on until Stiles’ breathing and pulse have settled again.  

“Sorry,” Stiles says, when she’s a little calmer, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.  Guess I’m not as okay as I thought I was.”

“Don’t worry about it.”  Derek sits back and glances at the door, but no one has come running to check on Stiles, so Derek figures they’re probably okay for now.  “Get some rest, or the nurse will yell at me when she comes back.”  She disentangles from Stiles, who settles back against her pillows. 

Derek arranges herself on the guest chair by the bed, reaching over to brush loose hair out of Stiles’ face.  She adjusts the chair to make sure she has a clear line of sight to the door. The windows make her nervous - too much exposure - but she’ll hear anyone coming, it’ll be fine. 

 

 

***

Stiles is asleep by the time the Sheriff gets back from the cafe.  He’s gone long enough Derek suspects he was giving them time to talk, but he also seems approximately as interested in leaving Stiles’ side as Derek is, so he’s not gone all that long.

When he comes into the room Stiles doesn’t move, but Derek lifts her head from where she’s been dozing in her chair to meet his eyes.  She knows this looks weird, hopes she doesn’t look like a creeper, but she’s also exhausted and extremely disinclined to move.

Derek holds the Sheriff’s gaze for a few seconds, and then Stiles shifts restlessly and Derek looks away, leaning forward and reaching one hand out to smooth over Stiles’ hair.  Stiles quiets, the lines on her face smoothing out, and turns into Derek’s hand.  Derek looks up to find Greg watching them, his expression dubious.

“I didn’t want to leave her alone,” Derek offers, “I thought it might help if -”

The Sheriff cuts her off with one raised hand. “Don’t.  You don’t have to explain.  Not tonight anyway.”  He pulls up a chair on the other side of the bed and sinks into it with a sigh that sounds almost as tired as Derek feels.  “Look, go get yourself something to eat and come back.”

“I don’t think the doctors want me here,” Derek says, testing.

“Stiles does.  Go on, I’ll be here with her.  I’ll deal with the doctors.”

Derek just nods, grateful beyond words to be allowed this time with Stiles.  She’ll make a stop at the cafeteria, check in with her pack, tell them to go home and get some rest.  And then she’ll come back to sit with Stiles.  The real world will kick back in tomorrow morning, but for right now they’re safe and the pack is safe and nearby and the real world can wait a few hours. 


	12. Chapter 12

Stiles is cleared to go home by ten the next morning.  Melissa comes to Stiles’ room to let them know Stiles is good to go; she doesn’t comment on the Derek’s presence, for which Derek is grateful.  Melissa gives the Sheriff a series of instructions for Stiles, mostly to do with the (exhaustive) list of things Stiles is not allowed to do or eat for the next week or so.  Derek listens with a kind of fascinated horror.  Human healing is absurdly complicated.  Mostly what Melissa says is that Stiles shouldn’t be left alone in case there are any complications, a sentiment with which Derek is in complete agreement.

“So, no burgers?”  Derek says it half as an attempt at humor and half because she’s really craving a good burger.  She hadn’t left Stiles room since her brief excursion to the cafeteria and she thinks she could probably eat half a cow at this point.  

Stiles looks hopeful, but Melissa shuts her down with a quelling look before leveling Derek with an expression which indicates that after that remark, Melissa isn’t sure Derek is qualified to keep a potted plant alive, much less be entrusted with the welfare of another human being. 

“Right,” Derek mutters, “No burgers.”

“No burgers.  Stiles, you can actually probably eat most things, just stay away from anything really rich or really greasy.  Take it easy; you were only gone a few days so apart from the obvious you should be okay.  But you’ve been through a lot and you need to give your body time to recover, so nothing crazy, all right?”

“Stomach has whiplash, be nice to it.” Stiles translates, “Got it.”

And just like that they’re cleared to go.

Derek knows she should go, get out of the way so the Sheriff can take Stiles home, but she can’t make herself leave Stiles’ side, not until she has to. 

“Alright,” the Sheriff says, “Let’s get out of here.  C’mon Derek, I’m driving.  Get Stiles will you?”

The relief of a reprieve, even if only temporary, nearly staggers Derek but she thinks she hides it fairly well.  Derek takes charge of pushing Stiles’ wheelchair while the Sheriff deals with the hospital release forms.  None of them talk much as they get settled into the Sheriff’s car.  Derek sits with Stiles in the backseat and tries not to think about returning to the depot, alone, out of sight, sound and smelling range of Stiles.  She looks up when the car comes to a halt in the Stilinski driveway.

“Oh,” Derek says blankly, “I thought you were dropping me off.”

The Sheriff pulls the key and turns around to give Derek an incredulous look. “Dropping you off where?  You don’t have a place as far as I know.  Not that’s fit for habitation, anyway.”

Derek winces.  She doesn’t need to be reminded of the burned-out shell of her family’s home, nor of the depot with its utter lack of security and basic amenities.

“I – Sorry,” the Sheriff says, rubbing at his eyes with one hand.  “I didn’t mean it like that.  I just meant….look, if you have a place I’d be happy to drop you off.  But you’re more than welcome to stay here.”

Derek gapes at him.   “What?”

“It’s been a hell of a week for both of you,” the Sheriff says.  “And I think Stiles, for one, would appreciate having you nearby. At least until you find a new place.”

Derek looks over to find that Stiles is staring at her father, looking stunned.  He nods back at her and Stiles turns to Derek.

“You should definitely stay with us.  The depot’s not safe.  Also, we hardly ever use our guest room, I think it’s starting to feel unloved.”

Derek doesn’t really know what to say, so she just nods. She stands by and holds the door while the Sheriff helps Stiles out of the car and up the stairs to the house.

“Alright, so, I was thinking you could hang out down here, for now.” The Sheriff tells Stiles.  “You know, just lie on the couch.  TV’s here, kitchen nearby.  Minimize walking and stairs.”

“Good call,” Stiles says, sinking onto the couch. “TV, proximity to food, no stairs.” 

“Yep,” the Sheriff replies, moving around the room, pulling blankets out of a closet and bringing them back to pile up on the couch next to Stiles.  He hands her the remote control then looks around, hands on his hips.  “Are you hungry?  Can I get you something to eat?”

“Thanks Dad, I think I’m actually good for now though.  I thought I’d never stop eating when I got out but I’m actually - ” Stiles stops at the look on her father’s face and says, “Uh.  I mean.  I’m fine.  Thanks though.”

“Right,” the Sheriff says.  “I’m going to get Derek set up in the guest room.  I’ll be right back, call if you need anything.”

“I’m _fine,_ Dad.”

“Right.  Right, okay.  Come on Derek.” 

Derek follows the Sheriff up the stairs and down the hall, past Stiles’ room into what must be the guest bedroom.  The Sheriff rummages around in a closet and emerges with a pile of sheets.

“Listen,” the Sheriff says, as Derek helps him make up the guest bed.  “Stiles gets antsy, and she doesn’t like to be babied.  But, look to be totally honest, I invited you to stay because I could really use someone I can trust to look out for Stiles.  I have to get back to the station - there’s a stack of paperwork three feet deep I have to get through to get the ball rolling on charging these bastards.  I’d appreciate it if you’d stay here for a while.  Keep an eye on Stiles, you know? Perps are in the county jail but….”

“Yes,” Derek says.  She knows, she’s jumpy too. 

“You’re obviously free to leave whenever but I’d appreciate if you stuck around. For a while anyway.”  

“I - thank you.” Derek says, feeling overwhelmed. “I’d be happy to stay.  For a while.”

The Sheriff leaves as soon as the guest room is set up and Stiles is settled; there’s work to do at the station, criminal investigations to organize.  Before he leaves, the Sheriff shows Derek the kitchen; the pantry and the cookware and the stash of Progresso soup and pasta in a cupboard. He writes his cell number on a pad of paper and leaves it by the phone with strict instructions to call if anything – _anything_ – goes wrong.  And he leaves Derek a key.

“If you do decide to leave, or go out, or anything, do me a favor and give me a call first, alright?  I don’t want Stiles here alone.”

“I will,” Derek says.  “I mean, I’m not leaving.  I’ll stay, but.  I will.” 

“Thanks.  Oh, and Derek?”

“Yes?”

“If Scott or the others show up, don’t let them wear Stiles out.  She needs rest.”

“You know I’m _right here,_ right?” Stiles calls from the couch in the next room.  “I don’t need superpowers to hear you talking in the next room over.”

“I know, sweetie,” the Sheriff says, walking over to kiss Stiles on the forehead.  “You too, call if you need anything.  I’ll be back at six.”

“Yeah yeah,” Stiles says, then adds, “No fast food, I’ll know if you cheat.”

“No fast food,” the Sheriff promises, and leans down to wrap Stiles in a gentle embrace. “Seriously, you need anything I’ll be back here before you can blink.”

“We’ll be fine, Dad.  And Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

“I will sweetie, you too.”

“I love you Dad.”

“I love you too kid.  See you at six.”

 

***

When the Sheriff is gone, Derek goes back into the living room and she and Stiles just stare at each other for a moment.

“Good to be back?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “For a while there I thought I might not see this place again.”

Derek nods, feeling like an intruder. 

“Oh, hey, computer!  I haven’t checked my email since….ugh, since the morning before hurricane Sandra.”  Stiles pauses, casting a quick sideways glance at Derek, then continues. “My inbox is gonna be a nightmare and – oh my god, my guild!  They’re totally gonna think I flaked and….”

Stiles moves to get up but Derek waves her back.

“You want your laptop, right?”

“Yeah, it’s in my room, I’m just gonna grab it real quick -”

“No,” Derek says, “I’m going to go grab it.  _You_ are going to sit there and try not aggravate any of your multiple broken bones.”

Stiles pouts, but she stays put.  Derek retrieves Stiles’ laptop and brings it back to the living room.  Derek watches as Stiles struggles with her computer.  It’s an effort to get it open and started left-handed, and watching Stiles trying to type is painful.  After a few minutes, Stiles looks up and says, “Alright, this is gonna get old _real_ fast. Hand me the remote, will you?  Maybe checking my mail will be less frustrating if I’m multitasking.”

Derek hunts around for the remote and Stiles starts to reach across to take it from her, then stops with muffled curse. Even apart from her ribs and her arm, Stiles is a mass of bruises and every halting movement makes Derek ache in sympathy.  She’s pretty sure Stiles is on pain meds – she _has_ to be – but they’re clearly not doing their job if Stiles is still in such obvious pain. Stiles settles back on the couch, her movements stiff and her face drawn with discomfort.  Derek sets the remote down next to Stiles and has to force herself not to reach out and take some of the pain. Stiles looks up at her, takes in her expression and says, “Nope.  It’s fine, really.”

“Lie,” Derek counters, and Stiles sighs but shows no sign of relenting.

“Just leave it Derek.”

“Fine,” Derek says, and hesitates.  “Are you - can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine. I should be asking you that anyway, I’m the host here.”

“You’re the patient,” Derek says, raising her eyebrows and giving Stiles a meaningful look.

“Yeah about that,” Stiles says, “I think I should warn you I’m a terrible patient.  You don’t have to, um.  Babysit me.”

Derek grabs the remote and switches the TV on. “I’m not babysitting you.  I’m crashing at your place and taking advantage of your cable.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, “Well, in that case.  Knock yourself out.”

It takes Stiles all of fifteen minutes to fall asleep on the couch.  Derek turns off the TV, closes Stiles’ laptop and puts it off to one side, spreads one of the blankets over Stiles and goes to make herself some food.  One of these days maybe she’ll stop constantly craving food; at the moment she feels like a squirrel, or a bear, trying to stock up even when she’s no longer physically hungry.  Derek is hoping the hoarding impulse will go away once she’s had a sufficient number of successive complete meals.  For now, she makes herself a stack of sandwiches, then returns to the living room and settles into an armchair to keep watch. 

 

***

The first night Derek is at the Stilinski house she tries to stay in her appointed room, she really does.  But the room is too big and too exposed and she’s hyperaware of every little noise, any one of which could indicate a threat and must be analyzed as such. Trying to keep tabs on Stiles from down the hall is exhausting, and it doesn’t help that after spending most of the day passed out on the couch, Stiles is now wide awake and Derek can _hear_ her not-sleeping.  After an hour or two Derek gives it up as a bad job and pads down the hall to Stiles’ room. 

Stiles sits up with a gasp when Derek slips through the door, then shakes her head and laughs.

“Oh, thank god it’s you.  You startled me.”

Derek winces and curses herself for not remembering to knock – just because Derek can hear people coming and identify them by scent and sound doesn’t mean Stiles can do the same.

“Sorry,” Derek says. “I forgot.”

“You can’t sleep either?”

“Room’s too big.”  And too empty.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “I get that.”

Derek crosses her arms, hovering by the door. “I thought I’d, you know.”

“Check on me?”

Derek shrugs and looks away, feeling awkward and grateful for the darkness. She looks back when Stiles clears her throat and shifts a little to one side.

“Alright, well don’t just stand there like a creeper, get over here. There’s tons of space.”

Derek hesitates.  “I should go back to the guest room.”

“No,” Stiles says, “You should stay here.  Every time I close my eyes I see Sandra stabbing you in the back, and it’s easier to ignore if you’re here. So.”

Derek releases a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and moves forward to slide into bed next to Stiles.

“So much better than concrete, right?”  

Derek snorts, settling in.  She can’t actually remember the last time she slept in a real bed – the hospital doesn’t count.

“’Night Derek.”

“”Night.”

With Derek lying next to her, Stiles is asleep in minutes. Derek stays awake a while longer, staring at the ceiling and trying to acclimate.  Everything about the last thirty-six hours or so is surreal.  More so even than being abducted and tortured and almost killed, which is kind of par for the course at this point.  Derek acknowledges that this is pretty pathetic, but the fact remains that thirty-six hours ago she had been all but certain she and Stiles were both going to die and since then she’s been rescued by two ex-enemies, three previously incompetent betas and Scott.  Stiles is alive and recovering and Derek has been taken in by the fucking _Sheriff_ of Beacon Hills, who has every reason to hate her guts for what’s happened to Stiles. She has a key to the fucking _house,_ and she’s sharing the Sheriff’s daughter’s bed.  Derek is almost afraid to breathe in case it all shatters.

 

***

At some point during the long first days of healing, when Stiles is still sleeping almost all the time, Sheriff Stilinski pulls Derek aside.

“I’ve been over Ms. MacAllister’s....building.” he says, expression grim. “I saw her basement.”

The torture chamber, Derek thinks, and the cell.  She tries to keep the wince off her face.

“Derek, there was a lot of blood.  Look, I need to know if there was anyone else there with you.  We didn’t find any bodies but….”

“No,” Derek says, “It was just us.  But that might be a good angle for your case.”

“I don’t understand.” Greg is watching her like he’s searching for invisible injuries.  “You told my deputy you were physically all right.  Stiles didn’t lose anywhere close to that much blood.  There must have been four pints of blood in there; where did it all come from?”

“Like I told Officer Martinez,” Derek says, holding his gaze, “they didn’t do anything that left a mark.”

“Yes.  He thought you meant waterboarding.  Or stress positions, or something.  But that’s not it, is it?” The Sheriff is eyeing her shrewdly.

Derek shakes her head. “No, it’s not.”

“Derek.  Whose blood is it?”

“It’s mine,” Derek says, and watches the Sheriff’s expression shift. 

“That’s impossible,” the Sheriff says, “You should be dead, there was too much blood…”

“Did Allison and Erica explain to you about werewolf healing abilities?”

“No, I - healing abilities?  What?”

“We heal quickly.  Very quickly, almost immediately.  It’s amazing what you can do to a werewolf without leaving a mark,” Derek says, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.  The instant healing is an extraordinary advantage, but it’s led to more unaddressed, unremedied, un _provable_ abuses over the centuries than Derek cares to think about.

“So you were...you were in that room?”

“Pretty much every day, except when Stiles interfered.”

Sheriff Stilinski just stares at her, appalled.  After a moment he scrubs both hands over his face and says, “Jesus.  Jesus that’s _sick._ Who the hell are these people?”

“Hunters.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that.  Look, Derek.  Are you….are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Alright, dumb question.  I’m sorry.  For what it’s worth.”

“Thanks,” Derek says, unbending a little.

“So now what?  What does this mean?  We’ve got four pints of unidentified blood in that dungeon.  I mean, they tell me it was at least that much but it looks like your hunters sluiced the place down every so often, so we could probably fudge the numbers a bit.  When they run a DNA comparison it’ll come up as a match for you though.”

“I might have an idea about that, actually.  But if you really want to bring this case, we’re not going to be able to tell the truth.  Half your evidence is going to be completely unusable.” Derek spreads her arms wide, glances down at herself, then up again. “Nothing human could have lost that much blood without some kind visible injury.” Derek watches the Sheriff as he struggles with that for a moment, then says, “You can get them for Stiles though, we’ll just have to make sure our story is solid.”

The Sheriff looks unhappy, but he nods.

“We’ll do what we can,” he says, “and hope it’s enough.”

 

***

The next day Derek calls Lydia, leaves Scott and the betas with Stiles, and goes to pay Danny Mahealani a visit. Derek remembered that Danny was Stiles’ go-to computer guy, and Lydia said Jackson had come clean before he took off, so Danny is at least somewhat in the know.

“Danny!” Lydia says brightly when he answers the door, “We need a favor.”

Danny eyes them both with suspicion. “What kind of a favor?”

Derek and Lydia exchange glances, and then Lydia says, “Can we come in?  It’s kind of a long story, but it’s for Stiles.”

Danny sighs, but stands back to let them in.  Thirty minutes later he’s staring at them in wide-eyed horror across the kitchen table. 

“What do you want from _me_?  I’m no good at this kind of thing, I don’t want anything to do with crazy, homicidal hunters….”

“Don’t worry, we don’t want you to take on hunters.  We just want you to hack the police file,” Lydia says, leaning forward.  “I know you’re good enough to do it.”

“You want me to _hack the police?!_ ” The words are a whispered shriek.  Danny leans forward, staring between Lydia and Derek and says, “Have you lost your _minds?_   I can’t hack the police!”

“Sure you can,” Derek drawls.  “We just need you to change the record for some blood they found at the crime scene.”

“What? Why?” 

“Because,” Derek explains, trying to be patient, “It’s my blood and there’s too much of it.  We’re taking this to trial and if the defense pokes too many holes in our story they’re going to have to let the hunters go.”

Danny hesitates, torn.

Derek needs this favor so she doesn’t pull her punches. “Danny, it was me they wanted.  Stiles was an accident and as soon as they realized – ” Derek stumbles a little, but she really does need Danny’s help.  “As soon as they realized they could hurt me by hurting her, they did. She tried to protect me, and they beat her almost to death _while I was watching._ ”

Beside her, Derek can feel Lydia’s flinch.  Across the table, Danny is staring at her, eyes big, face pale.

“In case you don’t have a solid mental image,” Derek continues, ruthless, “I want you to imagine Stiles lying on the floor of a filthy dungeon while three guys twice her size kick the _shit_ out of her.”

“Jesus,” Danny says, blanching, “alright, alright, I get it.  You need your case to hold up.  I’ll see what I can do.”

“We just need you to make sure the blood doesn’t come up a match for Derek,” Lydia tells him. “Fudge some numbers, make it look like someone else’s blood, whatever, it just can’t trace back to Derek or we’re going to have questions we can’t answer.  There’s a couple of missing persons cases for people we’re pretty sure are dead, you could make it look like one of them if you can access their files.”  

“You people watch too much TV,” Danny says, “That’s _insanely_ complicated. But...you said the problem is that there’s _too much_ blood, right?”

“Too much for anyone human to have lost and still be alive,” Lydia clarifies.  “What are you thinking?”

“Well...what if I just changed the units?  You know, the report says X pints of blood - your DNA swap idea would be a disaster but I could probably switch pints to ounces.  If anyone goes back to check it would just look like a typo.  Could you explain a smaller quantity of blood?”

Derek looks to Lydia, whose eyes are narrowed in concentration.

“That...could work,” Lydia says slowly.  “What do you think, Derek?  Even if they do bring up the blood, you could...I don’t know, you could say they drew some blood at some point - the needle mark wouldn’t show at this point and we could say they spilled some, or that you bit your tongue or something.”

“Maybe…” Derek is unconvinced.

“What are they going to do about it though?” Lydia says, growing more animated as she speaks.  “I think this is actually pretty brilliant.  The problem is that the physical evidence isn’t going to match observable reality, right?  If they wanted to prove you really had lost all that blood - and they won’t want to talk about your blood being all over their dungeon floor unless they’re trying to prove you’re a werewolf, which would probably not go over well in court - but even if they were to go that route, they’d have to do some kind of physical demonstration.”

“I guess…”

“And no court in the world is going to ask a kidnapping victim and witness to let someone slice her up just to prove she’s _not_ a supernatural creature of the night.” Lydia finishes triumphantly.  “Good job, Danny.”

“I...thanks,” Danny says, looking a bit shell-shocked.

“So you’ll do it?” Derek asks, pressing the advantage.

 Danny gives them both a hunted expression, then sighs. “I’ll do it,” he says, “but you owe me one.  I could get in huge trouble for this.”

“We appreciate it,” Derek says. “Don’t worry too much, Melissa McCall, Sheriff Stilinski and Chris Argent are all on our side.  It should be fine.”

“If you say so.  Oh, hey -” Danny hesitates.  “Is she okay?  Stiles?  Can I come see her sometime?”

“She’s going to be fine,” Derek says, giving him a real smile for the first time.  “And she’d probably appreciate a visit, she’s bored out of her mind right now.”

Danny smiles back and says, “Yeah.  Alright, I’ll come by sometime.  And I’ll let you know when I figure out your favor.”

Lydia gives Danny a hug and Derek shakes his hand and then they part ways.

“Well,” Lydia says, once they’re in Derek’s car, “That went well.”

“We’ll see when he gets it done,” Derek says.  There are still a lot of loose ends, but things are looking up.


	13. Chapter 13

Greg spends much of the next few days away from the house, collecting evidence, conducting interviews, talking with the arresting deputies and coordinating with the Beacon Hill prosecuting attorney.  As soon as things have settled somewhat, Greg calls Chris Argent down to the station. When Argent arrives and is shown to Greg’s office, he takes one look at Greg’s face and says, “Who told you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Greg says, getting up from his desk. “You _lied_ to me.  I know the kids planned that rescue operation and I know you were in on it, and you might be cavalier with your own daughter’s life but I’ll be damned if I put up with you jeopardizing Stiles _._ ”

“Allison is the only thing in the world I have left Sheriff, so don’t you dare accuse me of being careless of her safety.” Argent’s features are tight with fury, but he keeps his voice level.  When Greg doesn’t respond, Argent takes a steadying breath and says, “Allison knows how to handle herself and it was the only way to get Stiles and Derek back.  You should be _thanking_ me.”

“For sending a teenage girl into that, that _viper’s nest_?  That’s your idea of a good plan?”

“You tell me, Sheriff.  What’s the usual procedure for kidnappings?  You go by the book, you get a hostage negotiator or you send a SWAT team and either way there’s a better than even chance you lose your victim in the crossfire.”

“And sending in a bunch of teenagers is a better idea?”

“Sandra trusted Allison.  We saw a way for Allison to get to Stiles and Derek, _without_ having to lay siege to the damn place.  She was careful.  She’s well trained and she had backup.  It’s not traditional, but I think you’ll have to admit it was effective.”

“I don’t care what kind of _training_ she’s had!  She’s still just a kid!  They’re all just kids.”

“But they’re growing up,” Argent says.  “They’re smart and capable and I never wanted this for Allison, not yet anyway.  But the decision is out of my hands now.  All I can do is try to guide her; help her and protect her when I can.  But I can’t protect her from everything and I’ll lose her if I try.  It was Allison’s choice, and it was the best chance for Stiles and Derek.”

For a long moment Greg holds Argent’s gaze, then he takes a deep breath, and gestures to an empty chair by his desk. 

“Take a seat, Argent, and start talking.”

Argent hesitates, then does as Greg says.  “How much do you know?”

“A fair amount, but I want everything you know, and no holding back this time or I swear to god werewolves will be the least of your problems.”

Argent sighs, then begins to speak.  When Argent is done talking Greg is silent a long time.  Most of the information isn’t new, just corroboration of what the kids and Derek had told him earlier, but Argent has a different perspective, and his information is more detailed and in-depth than what Greg had gotten from Allison.

“So you hunt werewolves.”

“The ones that are a danger to society,” Chris says.

“Right,” Greg says.  “And the Hale fire?  Your family authorized that?  Were they a ‘danger to society’?”

Argent shakes his head.  “Kate acted unilaterally.  I didn’t know she’d done it until right before she died.”

That fits with what Greg knows.  Allison had been visibly upset when she’d told him about the role her aunt played in the fire, and Greg hadn’t wanted to push her.  It’s possible Argent is lying, that he knew all along, but Greg senses he’s telling the truth.

“Ten people died in that fire,” Greg says slowly. “The youngest couldn’t have been more than five years old.”

Argent looks away.  “We have a code,” he says, “it doesn’t always work.”

“And the hunters who break the code?”

“Everyone responsible for the Hale fire is dead now,” Argent says, which doesn’t answer the question.

“Hunters, werewolves…” Greg shakes his head. “All this under our noses…”

“There have been hunters for as long as there have been wolves,” Argent says. “It’s not your world.”

The look Greg gives him could strip paint.  “It _wasn’t_ my world,” Greg says sharply, “Then your world nearly killed my daughter – and it wasn’t the so-called monsters that did it, either.”

Argent really doesn’t have an answer for that.  Greg takes a deep breath and stands.  “You’ll keep me informed from now on,” Greg says.  He leaves the threat unspoken, but from the look on Argent’s face, Greg thinks he’s made himself clear. 

Argent stands as well. “Noted,” he says, then pauses.  “Sheriff, may I ask how you’re planning to try this case?”

“I”m not sure that’s any of your business.”

“I’m sure it’s not but when you’re figuring out your story, you should keep in mind I had to stop Derek ripping those hunters apart when we found them.”

“If I’d been there you’d have had to stop me doing the same,” Greg says bluntly. “What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything.  I’m saying Derek wouldn’t be the first person in her family to want revenge.  And it’s difficult to arrange a murder inside the walls of a prison.”

“You think Derek might throw the case for the chance to get revenge?”

“Just something to consider,” Argent says. 

“Thanks for coming down Mr. Argent.” Greg holds open the door and waits for Argent to walk through.  “We’ll be in touch.”

 

***

Beacon Hills is a small town, and Greg Stilinski has a certain amount of influence. They've had more than their fair share of sensational events in Beacon Hills over the last two years, but Greg's position gets the case fast-tracked.  It’s not every day you get to bring charges of kidnapping and torture (thank God), and the novelty lends some urgency to the proceedings. After all the mysterious deaths and unsolved murders, it doesn’t even take much of a push – everyone is just grateful to have a concrete case, with suspects in custody and motives and everything.

It takes some careful maneuvering to figure out their approach though, because while there are suspects, and there is a motive, the pervasive thread of the supernatural running through every aspect of the case complicates matters. 

The initial planning session takes place in the Stilinski living room and includes the entire pack.  Stiles’ story is relatively simple and doesn’t require much tweaking to be workable.  Derek’s story, on the other hand, is more difficult.  The entire process – concealing evidence, creating a lie to get to the truth – is a bitter pill to swallow, but it’s not like they have many options.

“We need to get this story straight,” Greg says, “There’s a lot – and I mean a _lot_ of holes so we’re going to have to fudge it a bit.  You’re both going to have to lie to your lawyer – and lawyers _hate_ it when you lie to them.”

“I thought lawyers were used to people lying to them,” Isaac says.

Greg gives Isaac a sidelong look and says, “They are, which is why it has to be a _good_ lie.  Cynthia Ng at the prosecutor’s office is handling the case, and she’s sharp.”

“Cynthia?” Stiles says, perking up. “She’s totally badass!  Oh.  And really good at her job, she can spot a lie a mile away, I could never get anything by her.”  Stiles looks worried.  “Okay, yeah, we seriously need to get our story straight.” 

Lydia looks around at the group and raises her hand.  “I really hate to say this, but what about credibility?”

“What credibility?” Derek snaps.  “We don’t need credibility, we have Stiles.”

“Right,” Lydia says, “but what’s their defense going to be?  I mean, unless they plead out, they’ll have to say _something,_ right?   What if – sorry Derek – but what if they say it was you?  That you did this to Stiles.  They could say, I dunno, that you were squatting at their house and they didn’t realize it until Sandra came back with Allison and it was all just some huge misunderstanding…”

“She’s right,” Boyd says, “That’s a pretty standard defense, isn’t it?  I have a cousin who’s a public defender – they call it SODDI – Some Other Dude Did It.  They were arrested at the scene, if they don’t plead out they’ll have to pin it on someone else and Derek is easiest.”

Greg sighs.  Boyd and Lydia are right.  If the perps don’t plead out they’re going to have credibility issues. 

“Derek, no offense, but you’ve been arrested for murder twice now,” Lydia continues.

“The charges were dropped,” Derek says, glaring.

“What about me?” Stiles says, leaning her shoulder against Derek’s. “Does my opinion count for nothing?  I was _there_ you know.  It’s not like I’m going to forget who abducted us and what….and what they did to us.”

“To you,” Derek mutters. 

“To _us,_ ” Stiles snaps back.

“To _you,_ Stiles,” Lydia says, and her voice is hard but the look she gives Stiles is sympathetic.  “We can’t prove they did anything to Derek other than keep her locked up with you.”

“And Stiles,” Greg thinks it’s time to weigh in here.  “Unfortunately your word might not count for very much.  Derek’s not the only one with a record.  You and Scott had that restraining order taken out by Wittmore’s kid –”

“But that was – we were trying to save people’s lives!  And anyway it got revoked.”

“I know, but that doesn’t matter. You abducted a classmate, you had a restraining order against you, and you and Scott and Derek and Melissa were all at the station the night half my department got slaughtered.  There’s security feeds – any good defense lawyer will find all this stuff and if they’re worth their salt they could come up with a pretty decent defense.”

“So what?” Isaac says, “So what if Derek and Stiles have stuff on their records.  Who cares?  This is totally different. And we have evidence against them too, right?  We have Allison’s word, and Chris Argent’s, and Scott, and me.”

Greg closes his eyes.  This isn’t going to be pleasant. “Allison and Mr. Argent’s testimony will be helpful,” he says, “You and Scott are a little less helpful.  Scott has that same kidnapping charge and restraining order, and Isaac, your record isn’t spotless either.”

“Hey,” Scott says, laying one hand on Isaac’s shoulder, “That’s not fair.”

“It doesn’t have to be fair,” Boyd says, his tone flat. “Fair has nothing to do with it.”

“Boyd is right,” Greg says, shaking his head. “We’re trying to prove they committed a heinous crime – and to do that we have to prove every part of our case beyond a reasonable doubt.  Any doubt at all, anything that doesn’t add up, could throw everything off.  _They_ don’t need to prove anything – they just need to create doubt, and our case is about as water-tight as a sieve.”

“That still doesn’t add up to _Derek_ doing this to Stiles.” Erica says, sitting forward from where she’s been leaning against Boyd. 

“Sure it does,” Allison says, her expression grim. “I spent a while talking with Sandra.  They could say it was a prank gone wrong, some kind of hazing, something.  That Scott and Isaac and Derek were all in on it.  Derek’s older, she’s got some history.  They could say it was Derek leading the others astray.  That they’re all lying to protect each other and Stiles is too Stockholmed to tell the truth.”

“But that’s stupid!” Stiles blurts out, “That’s not what happened and I was _not_ Stockholmed.”

“Exactly what a Stockholmed kidnapping victim would say,” Lydia points out.

Greg casts a quick glance at Stiles.  Stiles is tight-lipped and watching Derek, who looks sick.

“But it’s not true!” Isaac says, eyes wide.  “They can’t do that, can they?”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s true,” Boyd says.  “Just what people believe.”

“This sucks,” Stiles says, slouching back into the couch and glaring.  “Can’t we just send them all to Gitmo or something?”

“Not so much, kiddo.” Greg says, “We gotta do this the hard way.  And it is going to be tricky and we do have to be careful, but we also have a lot of evidence on our side.  For starters, the house belongs to Larry and even if they try to say Derek and or someone else broke in, they’ll have a hard time explaining why they’ve got a torture chamber and a prison cell in their basement.  We have physical evidence too – hair and blood and the van they used to transport Stiles and Derek.  There’s a lot going for us, we just have to make sure we have an airtight story, and we have to make sure no one slips up.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

 When Derek and Stiles come by to identify the hunters at the police station they’re split up.  Derek’s not happy about it, but they don’t want to the give the defense any reason to question their identifications.  Derek goes first. She picks them all out of a lineup easily; she’d know these people blindfolded.  When she emerges from the lineup room, still sequestered away from Stiles to head off any accusations about collaboration, she has to wait for another excruciating fifteen minutes for Stiles to finish her own identification process.  The Sheriff waits outside with Derek, while a deputy who is not involved with either the arrests or the case accompanies Stiles. The Sheriff doesn’t look any happier about the situation than Derek is, but he’s seen the hunters’ faces and is anything but an objective observer. 

When Stiles comes through the door she’s pale and all the lines in her body are screaming tension.  She gives Derek and the Sheriff a tight smile and says, “Nailed it.  Like I was going to forget what they look like.”

The Sheriff pulls Stiles into a gentle hug and says, “Good job, kid.  We’ll get them, don’t worry.”

Derek has to stop herself from wrapping herself around Stiles as well.  Stiles smells anxious, which is not as bad as reeking of fear, but it’s close and Derek hates it. 

“You bet your, uh.  Pants we’re going to get them,” Stiles mutters, breaking away from her dad, then asks, “Are we done here?”

“Yeah, that’s it.  Go on back home, we’ll let you know what the next step is.” The Sheriff tells her.

“Just a minute,” Derek says.  “I’d like to see the cells, if you don’t mind.”

The Sheriff hesitates.

“They’re hunters,” Derek says, “I’d feel better if I knew they were secured.”

The Sheriff sighs, then gives Derek a reluctant nod.  “You’ll be on video,” he says, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Derek goes with one of the deputies to see the hunters.  She finds Sandra in a cell by herself; Larry, Edward and Stu in another cell across the hall.

“This isn’t over,” Sandra tells her, as Derek tests the bars, scanning the holding area for any sign of weakness or impending breakout.

“Really?” Derek says, raising one eyebrow.  “Looks pretty good from where I’m standing.  You know, on the outside of jail.”

“You take us to trial and we’ll expose you for the filthy monster you are,” Edward says, still nursing cuts and bruises, courtesy of Derek’s betas.

From the looks of it, Chris Argent hadn’t been in much of a hurry to pull her betas off of them; Derek still thinks he pulled them off too soon.

“I really wouldn’t be talking,” Derek replies evenly.  “You’re three grown men and you abducted two young women and held them captive for over a week. Stiles almost died.  This is not going to play well.”

Larry, bandaged and lying on one of the cots, props himself up on one elbow.  He looks over at Derek with his flat, dead eyes and says, “You’ll regret this, one way or another.”

“Do tell,” Derek drawls. “Feel free to be specific.”

Stu starts to say something but Larry, possibly remembering that their cells are under surveillance, swats his arm.  Sandra, across the hall, snaps, “Shut up, you idiots!”

Derek bares her teeth at them all in a parody of a smile and says sweetly, “I’ll see you in court.”   

 

***

The hunters are either extremely confident or extremely stupid because they don’t take the plea bargain they’re offered.  Maybe they think Derek is bluffing, that Chris Argent won’t really hang them out to dry.  In any event, they opt to fight the charges. Sandra hires a hotshot defense lawyer who tries to remove the case to federal court, citing something about an inconvenient forum.  It’s a smart move on their part, everyone in Beacon Hills is out for blood; the odds of getting an unbiased jury are pretty slim. Fortunately for Derek and the prosecution, and unfortunately for the hunters, the federal judge the defense tries to remove the case to isn’t having any of it.  According to Cynthia Ng, the prosecuting attorney, Beacon Hills has something of a reputation for weirdness, and the surrounding jurisdictions have an unstated policy of non-involvement.  They don’t frame it in those terms, of course, Judge Schmitt just notes in declining jurisdiction that the nearest federal courthouse to Beacon Hills is several hours away, that he understands a key witness is suffering from fairly severe injuries, and that it would be far more convenient for everyone involved if the case were to remain in Beacon Hills to be tried on-site.  He adds a few sharply worded sentences about “forum shopping” and not wasting the court’s resources by trying to shift the inconvenience of the forum to an injured teenager when the jurisdiction selected by the prosecution was perfectly valid to start with.  It all sounds really pissy in a very formal sort of way.

When they get the ruling Cynthia smiles, but she doesn’t look particularly surprised. Once the legalese has been thoroughly parsed Scott whoops and swoops Allison into a hug.  Lydia looks smug, and Stiles grins and says, “Ha! Take that!”

Things go pretty quickly after that.    

The day of the preliminary hearing Derek leaves her leather jacket home and shows up in a carefully chosen A-line skirt and a blouse borrowed from Allison.  She pulls her hair back with a barrette, puts on the tiniest bit of makeup. She adjusts her posture – less Alpha, more Trauma Victim.  She looks like a college girl, home from university.

“Oh my god,” Stiles had said back at the house, eying her up and down.  “That’s amazing, you look nothing at all like yourself.”

“Scary criminal element?”

“Badass,” Stiles said, smirking.  “Hardly badass at all.”

“Good,” Derek had replied, grinning and Stiles had winced.

“Oh, but, uh.  Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Smile like that, with your teeth.  You look like you’re ready to rip someone’s throat out.”

That’s fair.  Derek is, in fact, ready to rip someone’s throat out.  Several someones.  It’s kind of her default state of being these days.  Derek had scowled and forced her face blank.  “Better?”

“Much.  Just remember – you’re totally normal and you’ve never ripped anyone’s throat out with your teeth or cavorted through the eldritch woods under a full moon or –”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Shutting up,” Stiles had said, grinning.  “You’ll be fine.”

* * *

 

The prosecution presents their case first.  Derek sits through the opening statements and tries not to fidget.  Sitting next to her on the bench, Stiles is less successful, biting her lip and chewing on the fingers of her good hand until Derek reaches out and grabs her hand to stop her.  Stiles sends Derek a grateful look and squeezes her hand.

  
Stiles is the first witness called.  The Sheriff helps Stiles stand up, and all eyes turn to the slender girl with the plaster-encased hand, covered in bruises and obviously still in pain.  Derek allows herself a moment of savage satisfaction that they were successful in getting the trial fast-tracked – Stiles is the best evidence they have and they’ve been quick enough she’s still a godawful mess. The defense had fought hard to delay the trial, string it along until the bruises had faded at least, but Cynthia, with the backing of the prosecutor’s office, had been able to overrule every attempt.  Stiles is wearing a loose, short-sleeved blouse, ostensibly in deference to her cast, but it means that the jury can see the finger-shaped bruises on Stiles arms, the marks on her face.  It’s emotionally manipulative as all hell but Derek doesn’t care.

When they swear Stiles in she promises to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth without batting an eye.  Cynthia leads Stiles through the story with a series of careful, precise questions.  The Sheriff smiles and Scott smirks when Stiles tells about picking the cuffs.  Stiles smiles back at them and sits a little straighter, but it gets harder after that.  Cynthia lets Stiles talk, lets her paint a vivid picture of the time she and Derek spent in the cell, a carefully rehearsed play-by-play of every moment since the abduction.  When Cynthia asks about Stiles’ injuries, how she broke her fingers, her wrist, her cracked ribs, Stiles deflates.  Her voice remains steady, but she doesn’t look at Derek, or her dad, or any of her friends.  She keeps her eyes on Cynthia, holding her injured arm close to her body, her shoulders hunching.  It’s not an act; Derek can hear Stiles’ pulse racing and knows the others can too.  She reaches out to lay a hand on Scott’s arm and shoots him a warning glance when she senses him tensing next to her.

Derek keeps an eye on the jury, too.  Most of them are having trouble hiding their emotions and they look horrified.  Good.

The defense’s cross-examination is a shit-show. 

“What were you doing in an abandoned train depot?”

“Just, you know, exploring.  It seemed edgy.”

“What were you doing there with Derek Hale?  Is she a particular friend of yours?”

“I didn’t know her all that well before this, but yes, she is a friend.”

“Did you and your friend Scott McCall accuse her of murder?”

“We did,” Stiles says, with a guilty look at Derek, “We did but we were wrong.”

“Just ‘yes’ or ‘no’, please.  You did accuse Ms. Hale of murder?”

“Yes.”

“Twice?”

“Yes, but -”

“Why would my clients want to kidnap you?  What reason would they have for that?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, “I didn’t know any of them, but I think they knew Derek somehow, or thought they did.  Derek had met Sandra before and Sandra had some kind of grudge.  I think I was just sort of in the way.”

“So you and Ms. Hale were abducted by people you didn’t know, for no apparent reason, and kept in the basement of Ms. MacAllister’s house for six days because of an unidentified grudge against Ms. Hale?”

“Pretty much,” Stiles says, glaring.  

Derek sees Cynthia shake her head at Stiles, and Stiles takes a deep breath, and amends, “I mean, I just know what happened.  I tried to ask them what they wanted once, but it didn’t go that well, so I stopped asking.”

“I’m sure,” the defense says, looking disgruntled. “Ms. Stilinski you have a reputation for being something of a prankster, don’t you?”

“Objection,” Cynthia says, standing up, “How is that relevant?”

“Your Honor, we’re trying to show possible motive and demonstrate Miss Stilinski’s record of exercising questionable judgement.”

“Overruled,” the judge says. “Answer the question Ms. Stilinski.”

“I….prankster?  I mean, I guess so.  Sometimes.”

“Didn’t you yourself, with your friend Mr. McCall, abduct a classmate and hold him in a stolen police transport vehicle for over twenty-four hours?”

It goes on like that for a while; the whole thing is exhausting. Their case does have a lot of holes in it, and the questions the defense has been asking are all valid, and ones they’d prepared to answer.  Lydia and Allison’s projections turn out to have been spot-on; the hunters are making a serious effort to shift the blame to Derek.   Fortunately, the validity of the questions is vastly outweighed by the fact that by the end of the cross examination, the defense team comes away looking like they were bullying their injured, teenage kidnapping-victim of a witness, so at least there’s that.

When Stiles steps down from the stand and comes back to the bench she looks awful.  This is the longest she’s been awake at one time since leaving the hospital and she strongly resembles a wrung-out dishrag.  She sits down with a sigh and leans against her father.  Derek reaches out and squeezes her hand before going up to take the stand.

Derek gets through reliving the most recently hellish week of her life pretty well under Cynthia’s guidance.  The cross-examination from the hunters’ defense lawyer is where things get sticky.

“Ms. Hale, isn’t it true that most of your family died in a mysterious fire seven years ago?”

“Kate Argent murdered my family, yes.”

“Just yes or no answers Ms. Hale, if you please.”

Derek clenches her teeth, but nods.  In the public seating, Stiles looks furious.

“And isn’t it true that your sister and uncle died mysteriously soon after you returned to Beacon Hills last year?”

“Yes.”

“And you were arrested in connection with your sister’s death?”

“Yes, but - ”

“And in connection with the death of a janitor at Beacon Hills High School?”

“Yes, but that-”

“And weren’t you accused of that crime by, among others, Ms. Stilinski and Mr. McCall?”

“Yes, but-”

“And isn’t it true,” the defense lawyer says, speaking over Derek, “isn’t it true that you’ve been spending a lot of time with a bunch of local teenagers?”

“Objection!” Cynthia says, _finally_ getting in the game.  It’s all Derek can do not to growl at her own attorney. 

“Withdrawn,” the defense says. “Ms. Hale, did you sustain any injuries during your...captivity?”

“No,” Derek says through her teeth, seething.

“And yet Miss Stilinski had to be hospitalized?”

“Yes.”

“You say Miss Stilinski is a friend, correct?”

“Yes.”

“As her friend, one might have expected that you would have tried to defend her, or help her in some way.  And yet you have no injuries.  Not a bruise, not a scratch, not a single defensive wound.”

“Objection!”

“Get to the point, Counselor,” the judge says, giving the defense a warning look. 

Derek clenches her fists and tries to remember to breathe.

“And during this alleged time in captivity, did you try to defend young Miss Stilinski?”

“Yes, but - ”

“Yes, we can all see how valiantly you attempted to come to Miss Stilinski’s aid.  Thank you, Your Honor, no further questions.”

 

It’s every bit as bad as the worst-case scenarios they’d prepped in strategy-sessions.  By the time the defense is done with her, Derek is furious, exhausted, and adrenalin-high.  It’s not a good combination.  Cynthia catches her eye and gives Derek a quelling look, then stands to address the judge.

“Your Honor, I’d like to redirect, I have a few follow-up questions.”

“Go ahead, Counselor.”

“Derek, can you please explain for the court how Stiles ended up in the hospital?”

“They didn’t touch me,” Derek says, eyes briefly meeting Chris Argent’s, standing in the back row, before shifting back to Stiles. “Nothing that left a mark anyway, but they kept raving about monsters, and Stiles…” Derek allows herself a tiny smile, “Stiles doesn’t deal well with bullies.  She told them what she thought of them, and then, when they threatened me, she got in the way and,” Derek swallows and looks away from Stiles. “They hurt her, and they made me watch.  I couldn’t move.  Some kind of drug, I think.  They said they were teaching me a lesson. And Stiles too, for trying to help me.  I couldn’t – there was nothing I could do.”

The jury is appropriately horrified. 

“She’s a monster,” Edward says, standing up from his place at the defense table, the stitches on his face livid as Sandra tries vainly to shut him up. “We were doing society a service.  If you knew what we know…don’t let that get-up fool you, she’s a vicious bloodthirsty monster and she’d as soon kill you as look at you.”

“Mr. Cabell, unless you want to take the stand you must remain silent.  You are not permitted to speak from the floor.”

“Look at her,” Edward protests, “she’s not human!  All that time and not a mark on her, why do you suppose that is?  She’s a fucking monster that’s why, werewolves heal quicker than humans do – ”

“Order,” the Judge says sternly, leveling a look at Edward’s lawyer. “Counselor, control your client.”

Edward is past all caution by this point.  He stands at his table and fairly froths at the mouth, “Give me a knife,” he shouts, “I’ll show you what I mean – heals instantly, I can show you!”

“Mr. Cabell, that’s enough,” the Judge says, “I will not have this nonsense in my courtroom.  Security!”

Security officers are already moving in towards Edward.  One of them takes Edward by the elbow and says, “Sir, you need to calm down,” while his partner, who Derek recognizes as Deputy Martinez, takes Edward’s other arm and says, “Werewolves?  That’s what you’re going with?  I guess Stiles is a werewolf too then, huh?”

 “No,” Edward says, struggling as they tow him towards the exit.  “She’s human, it’s that one that’s the werewolf, just let me show you –”

“Yeah, that’s gonna happen.” Martinez says, rolling his eyes at his partner.  They’ve almost reached the door by this point and the rest of the courtroom is watching the drama in frozen silence.  Martinez opens the door and says, “So, just to be clear, Stiles is not a monster?”

“No, she’s a monster-loving bitch, but she’s human.  It’s her girlfriend you need to watch out for.”

The door swings shut behind them as Martinez snaps, “Hey!  You watch your mouth, buddy!”

For a few long seconds the silence holds, and then Cynthia Ng clears her throat and says, “Your Honor, I think we’re done here.”

Sandra, Larry, and Stu are removed from the courtroom by security guards and Derek steps down from the stand to rejoin her pack. 

“Well,” Cynthia says, “He might be going for insanity after that.  I guess we’ll see about the others.”

It’s not over, not by a long shot.  The preliminary hearing is apparently just to decide whether or not there’s enough evidence to justify an actual trial.  The victory here today means they get to come back later and do it all over again. 

It’s all far, far too high-profile for Derek’s taste, but she’s making the best of a bad situation.  Chris Argent doesn’t want the publicity any more than Derek does, but he can’t let her kill them, and she can’t have them running around loose. It’s not a _good_ compromise, but it’s the only one that works.  With any luck, the message to other hunters will be, “Stick to the code, and the Argents won’t hand you over to the cops and hang you out to dry.”  It won’t make Argent very popular, but the family name still carries a significant amount of weight.  It’ll have to be enough. 


	15. Epilogue

Stiles is healing.  Slowly.

Neither of them is really okay, but they’re getting better.  Stiles is perpetually cold, even though it’s summer and quite warm outside of sunless basement cells.  Derek is perpetually hungry, even though she feels like she spends all her time eating.  She’s started making regular grocery runs; she’s been feeling a bit like a parasite and she doesn’t want to be That Guest, eating her hosts out of house and home. 

 

Stiles is having a harder time processing than Derek is, which makes a certain amount of sense.  Derek hasn’t been okay since well before Kate, and it helps, in a perverse sort of way.  Derek’s had so much practice gluing pieces back together that it’s – it’s not _easy,_ but at least she knows all the steps. And she has a better support network now than she did then; she has her new pack, and Stiles, and _allies._ And Stiles, at least, knows her darkest secret.  They don’t talk about it.  Stiles makes something of a point of not asking questions and Derek isn't volunteering.  But Stiles knows and doesn’t hate Derek for it, or think she’s a monster, and it’s a huge relief not to be carrying the weight of that secret alone anymore. So Derek is doing alright.  She has new nightmares, of course, mainly because now she has a pack to care about and worry over again, but even that pain is counterbalanced by a renewed determination not to fuck it up this time.  A shot at redemption, maybe. All Derek’s broken places are familiar, but it’s all new for Stiles.

 

Derek is still staying at the Stilinski house and spending most of her nights in Stiles’ room.  The Sheriff knows, and Derek knows he knows, but they have an unspoken agreement not to discuss it, particularly since the few times Derek has tried staying in her own room have tended to result in screaming nightmares on Stiles’ part.  Derek’s nightmares are less dramatic - probably because she’s had more practice dealing with them - but no less disruptive.  The nights she spends apart from Stiles are restless and marked by a constant, nagging fear that something will happen to Stiles while she’s out of sight. The separation anxiety probably isn’t healthy, but the objective truth is that they both sleep better together than apart.  The Sheriff doesn’t seem inclined to push the issue, at least not while Stiles is still in constant pain, and Derek’s not going to bring it up if he doesn’t.  

Meanwhile, the Stilinski house has become the unofficial pack headquarters. Scott and Allison come by at least once a day, and the others do too.  Stiles is under house arrest for the foreseeable future, outside of court appearances, and once she’s stopped sleeping twenty hours a day she chafes at the enforced inactivity.  Stiles had been quite right; she makes a terrible invalid and Derek’s patience only stretches so far, so she’s glad for the assistance in keeping Stiles occupied. 

The pack takes turns bringing her books and movies and small gifts.  After Stiles breaks her video-game controller by throwing it at the wall in frustration, Scott brings her a new one and a Wii.  Stiles helps Scott with his summer school homework in the evenings.  Allison and Lydia come over and paint Stiles’ nails, “Wild Cherry Red” (“Oh my _god_ where’s the nail polish remover?  I look like a Christmas tree.  _Tell me you brought nail polish remover!”_ “She’s right, it clashes horribly with the green.  Stiles, who let you pick your cast?  What have I told you about your colors?”) and Danny stops by with _Princess Bride_ and kettle corn.   Derek spends long afternoons with her, playing board games, and once the whole pack comes over for Settlers of Catan.  The Sheriff seems to approve of the constant Stiles-sitting.  He’s still not entirely comfortable with the wolves, but something of the sense of _pack_ must be coming through, and it’s clear they won’t hurt Stiles, so he lets it go. 

 

* * *

 

It’s been three weeks since the rescue and Derek and Stiles are in Stiles’ room, late afternoon sun slanting sideways through the window.  Stiles is restless and irritable.  Derek lies on the bed, propped up on one elbow, and watches her pace.

The problem is that Stiles keeps trying to hobble along to pack events.  Most of the time they try to accommodate her by holding meetings at the Stilinski house, but that doesn’t always work out and there really is no reason Stiles needs to be present for trainings and workouts.  Stiles, naturally, does not see it that way and persists in showing up even when she’s been explicitly instructed to stay home. Derek is taking a stab at putting her foot down. 

“No,” Derek says, for what is maybe the thousandth time.

“Derek it’s not that bad!  I’m getting better!”

“Let me guess,” Derek says, shaking her hair back and giving Stiles her best unimpressed look, “it’s only a flesh wound.”

Stiles whips around and glares, stabbing one accusing finger in Derek’s direction. “Don’t make me regret my decision to improve your cultural education.  I taught you every snarky quip you know Ms. Alpha Grasshopper.”

Derek smirks and says, “You’re still not coming. Deal.”

“I’m _injured,_ ” Stiles says, executing a dizzying tactical shift, “That means you have to be nice to me!”

Derek barks a laugh.  Now that Stiles is no longer in near-constant, crippling pain, she’s switched gears from trying to pretend she’s fine to playing up her injuries for favors as needed.  Derek doesn’t mind; as long as Stiles is complaining Derek can assume she’s alright.

“‘Nice’ and 'letting you come to possibly-dangerous-pack meetings’ are not the same thing.  And you do realize that the sympathy ploy is not a get-out-of-jail-free card, right?  That’s not going to work forever.”

“Yes, but it works _now,_ ” Stiles says, holding up her cast.  “See?  Injured!  Injured and _bored,_ double trouble.”

Derek catches Stiles’ good hand as she passes and says firmly, “ _No,_ ” and lets her eyes flare red. Stiles shivers.

“You’re not coming to the pack meeting,” Derek says, more gently. “You’re still grounded, your father would _skin me alive,_ we’re explaining territory boundaries to that new wolf and did I mention how your father would skin me alive?”  Derek kind of enjoys not having to watch her back for the cops anymore; it’s nice.

Stiles crawls onto the bed, curls up facing Derek and sulks, staring down at their interlaced fingers.

“You can’t bench me forever,” Stiles says, and Derek growls.  Stiles rolls right over her, ignoring Derek completely. “You can’t.  I’ll be out of this cast and my stupid ribs will heal and _someday_ I’ll be ungrounded.”

“Stiles,” Derek starts.

“Shut up, Derek.” Stiles whispers, and kisses her.

It’s a brief kiss.  Stiles’ lips are chapped and dry and warm, and Derek barely has a chance to register what’s happening before Stiles is drawing back to regard her with anxiety.

“Derek,” she whispers, “Derek?”

Derek stares at her, dumbstruck, then reaches out to run a hand through Stiles’ hair, settling at the base of her neck, thumb massaging in slow circles.

Stiles is staring back at her, eyes wide, whole body trembling.  Her heart is beating fast, but Derek knows Stiles’ scent, and she’s not afraid.

“Stiles,” she says, “you’re really young, are you sure you – ” 

Stiles makes a strangled noise and lunges forward to kiss Derek again. Their noses mash together and Derek mutters, “Ow, geez, Stiles, _easy,"_ but Stiles kisses like she does everything else; reckless and impulsive and with her _whole body._ Derek kisses back in pure self-defense and pulls Stiles closer.  Stiles moans into Derek’s mouth and pushes one leg between Derek’s knees, molding herself against Derek as closely as possible. Her free hand is in Derek’s hair _,_ her tongue is in Derek’s mouth and the temperature has skyrocketed to probably a billion degrees.

Derek breaks away, dazed, and shushes Stiles’ inarticulate protest with three fingers against her lips.  Stiles narrows her eyes at Derek and opens her mouth to suck on Derek’s fingers. It’s ridiculously hot and Derek gasps before she regains control of herself and grabs Stiles firmly by the back of the neck.

“Stiles!” She’s alarmed to find that her voice is significantly more on the breathy, panting side and significantly _less_ on the Stern, Alpha side.  Derek tries again, “Stiles, you’re still hurt, I don’t-” she breaks off with a moan as Stiles _rocks_ up against her. Stiles’ eyes are dark, her cheeks are flushed; she smells like sex and safety and she is _sixteen years old._

Derek cheats.

She rolls Stiles onto her back, pins her gently and stares down at her, breathing hard.

“Alright, jailbait, you’ve made your point,” Derek says, and raises an eyebrow when Stiles squirms.  “We are _not_ doing this now, and you are _still_ not coming to the pack meeting tonight.”

“But- ” Stiles protests.

“‘But’ nothing,” Derek says sternly, then finishes, “You’re not coming to the meeting tonight, but, but! We can pick this up later.” She leans down, careful of Stiles’ ribs, and kisses her breathless.  “Okay?”

“’Kay,” Stiles says, grinning.

“Strictly PG-13 while you’re underage,” Derek warns, moving off of Stiles and helping her back upright.

Stiles gives Derek a look through her eyelashes that actually stops Derek’s breath for a second.  Stiles grins again and says, “We’ll see about that.”

Derek is probably doomed.

She’s probably doomed, but she’s alive, and she has a pack, and she has Stiles.  For the first time in a long time, it looks like she might actually have a future.

 

 


End file.
